


The Eye Blinks

by Lady_Of_Paper_7



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Affection, Alternate Ending, Alternate Ending season 4, Canon Asexual Character, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Elias Bouchard Being a Bastard, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/F, Fix-It, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hugging, Hurt/Comfort, Kitten, M/M, Martin Blackwood saves the world, Martin taking care of Jon, Mutual adoration, No Apocalypse, Reunions, Saving the World, Tenderness, averted apocalypse, canon-typical supernatural elements, even posthumously, jonmartin, martin x jon, open communication, safe house, spoilers for season 1 through 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:27:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24810022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Of_Paper_7/pseuds/Lady_Of_Paper_7
Summary: “Well you look…”“Kind of dreadful?”“A little bit”“I had an inkling, I might”Jon’s lips barely move as speaks, and he coughs again.“Are you…?”, Martin starts again, but Jon merely looks up at him, blinking with heavy lids and he closes his mouth.“You have to narrow that down a bit, I’m afraid”Even before Jon has finished his sentence, both of them go still._______What would have happened if Martin had returned from his walk before the archivist had read out the end of the world?
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 100
Kudos: 706





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own either characters, people or backstories. The only thing that I did was come up with semi-creative plots and ideas to put (already established and beloved) characters in and write them down, most of the time to come up with happy endings.
> 
> Chapter I: Alternate version of events of EP 160  
> Chapter II-V: Aftermath  
> Chapter VI: Happy ending  
> Chapter VII-X: Bonus Chapters

Martin has just pulled the front door shut and taken his first step towards the tiny driveway that connects Daisy’s- _the_ cottage to the main road when the first, tiny raindrop hits his forehead. He pauses for a moment, and another one finds its mark in the form of his cheek.

Up above, the sky is a steely blue-grey, but dark clouds are gathering up and start blocking out the sun as he watches. Martin could have sworn that the sky had been clear a couple of minutes ago but now the wind is picking up around him, and in the distance, the first bouts of thunder rumble ominously.

He sighs quietly and weighs his options while two more drops go for his glasses and temple. Walking in the rain has its charm, hell, after having lived in London for most his life, it almost feels strange to go for a stroll without the sound of countless raindrops beating down on his umbrella or hat at some point- the only problem is, that currently Martin is equipped with neither hat nor umbrella and the shade of the clouds above seems to have darkened while he’s been standing there. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he half-remembers a dark-blue umbrella dangling from the clothes hanger on the landing upstairs but retrieving that would mean going up the creaky stairs and landing, which is currently also covered in several plastic-sheets and newspaper pages.

A couple of days after he and Jon had made up their mind about staying here for the time being, and had unpacked the most important things they’d brought, they had decided to repaint at least the areas of the house, where the paint had either chipped off, bleached beyond recognition from the sunlight or had gone lost under a mess of stains neither of them really wanted to know the origin of. Mainly because it gave them something to do, secondly because it made them feel a little less like intruders who had nowhere else to go.

The thing is, that all of the stuff that is currently laying about on the landing means that it’s almost impossible to go up there without being heard throughout the whole house, especially if the person doing the hearing is in the half living room, half kitchen area the landing leads into. Like Jon is right now.

Jon, who had hated being interrupted whilst reading out statements even before he had started to rely on them for… sustenance?- Anyway, disturbing him right now with the first recording he had done in weeks, is about the last thing Martin wants to do. Apart from walking into the brewing downpour without even a proper raincoat or jacket that could give him at least some sort of protection.

A bigger drop hits his right cheek and slowly runs down the side of his face until it vanishes into the collar of his jumper, leaving a glistening trail in its wake. Martin shivers as he wipes at the wet line with one hand. In the back of his head he can already hear Jon chiding him after having returned from his walk dripping wet until he’d realize, that Martin had rather gotten drenched than risk disrupting him whilst recording and he would feel bad for the rest of the day, longer if Martin caught a chill because Jon is predictable like that.

So, Martin turns around, unlocks the door as quietly as he can and closes it just as carefully once he is inside. He toes off his boots before he slowly advances the wooden stairs that lead up to the first floor, figuring that if he just does his best to tread as carefully as possible and avoids the especially creaky steps, he might manage to get the umbrella and coat without his- without Jon even noticing if he’s already engrossed in his statement.

From the sound of it, Martin is in luck as he sets his foot down on the first stair, heel first and starts climbing up; Jon’s voice is already flowing down from the living room but Martin can’t make out the words yet. He doesn’t particularly want to push his luck and just get in and out as fast and quietly as possible, but when his hand closes around the umbrella and he carefully lifts it down from its hanger, he involuntarily strains his ears to make out what exactly Jon is saying. Something feels off. Martin pauses, holding his breath to listen more closely.

Only when the words stop for a moment, and Martin half expects Jon to call out to him and ask why he’s back already, but instead hears him breath raggedly and gasp as if he’s in pain or struggling to stop talking, before he continues to read out loud, does Martin carefully place the umbrella on the lid of the paint-bucket they’d left out last night and edge closer to the living room. He barely lifts his feet off the floor as he does his best to navigate the paper and plastic sheets strewn about without making any more noise than necessary. As he draws nearer, he can make out the words and his stomach drops below his knees as his eyes land on Jon.

The archivist is sitting with his back to the landing and staircase at the little wooden table that is barely big enough to fit two sets of plates, cutlery and glasses next to each other and which is currently housing the tape recorder and Jon’s hands, balled to fists around the statement he is reading out loud. His shoulders are hunched and even from where Martin is hovering at the threshold of the door that connects the living area with the landing, he can see how badly Jon’s hands are shaking, and how stiff his neck and shoulders are, as if he’s struggling against something that holds him in place whilst still dragging the words out of him. Thunder growls outside and Martin can feel its resonance in his bones.

Martin too stays absolutely still but his mouth involuntarily opens in horror at Elias’ statement. The archivist’s voice meanwhile breaks with the words he struggles to keep in but can’t stop from pouring form his lips, and Martin curses himself as his mind races to come up with a plan, anything he can do but comes up empty. He wants to scream, to run to Jon and rip the pages out of his hands, to set them on fire – to do anything but there is nothing he can do as long as Jon keeps speaking in a voice that comes out so raw, it’s a miracle it doesn’t draw blood from his throat with every word he’s reading out, all the while tightening the noose around the world’s neck and so utterly smug and cold that Martin can feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise and stand on edge. He blanches at the mere thought of what the eye might have Jon do in order to have him hold onto the statements and keep reading, let alone what it might do if he stops…

The thought comes unbitten and Martin pushes it away with all his might, banns it from taking over because he can already feel his resolution weaken and begin to crumble; _what if he hurts Jon? What if he_ kills _him? But he can’t go there; right now, he has to focus,_ has to focus _, **has to focus** because Jon would never forgive him if just stands there and does nothing but watch as he-_

Trying to tear the pages out of Jon’s hands is out of the question with how tightly he is clutching the paper and as much as Martin would enjoy to add this one to the collection of Elias’ statements he has set on fire and turned into nothing but ashes, fire won’t work quick enough to destroy the paper before Jon notices and can do anything about it.

Martin’s eyes dart around the room, desperate for anything he could use to interrupt or stop Jon with but there’s nothing except what little furniture has come with the house, and the handful of belongings they had brought form London; a couple of books and pieces of clothing that lay strewn around the room, two still half unpacked cardboard boxes and the umbrella he left on the landing- and Martin cannot even bring himself to think about striking the back of Jon’s head with it in an attempt of knocking him out, _if_ that even worked at this point. 

What he needs is something quick, something silent, something that will destroy the sheets Jon is holding or at least render them unreadable in one fell swoop but there is nothing-

Except the paint. They had barely started painting yesterday evening before it had gotten too dark to continue working near the steep stairs without risking one of them slipping or tumbling down and there were at least two thirds of the thick, light green paint left.

It’s stupid, it probably won’t work, Jon might look up when he hears Martin stumble or notice the smell of fresh paint that has suddenly gotten a lot stronger- but now he is talking about combining all fourteen fears in one ritual to end the word and Martin decides that he’d much rather make an absolute fool out of himself than just stand there and watch as Elias condemns both the world and Jon to a fate worse than death.

The lid pops with the tiniest of sounds, but the words just keep coming from the living room, so Martin lifts the bucket up as carefully as he can and creeps back towards the door. Only this time, he does not stay there, but crosses the threshold, bare feet silent on the wooden floorboards. He doesn’t let himself think about what might happen if this doesn’t work, and he doesn’t let himself think about what will happen if it does, what will happen to Jon if-

This close, Martin sees Jon’s shoulders shake and he can make out the tears that soundlessly hit the bottom of the pages in clear drops. Martin’s hands shake almost as badly as Jon’s when he steps up behind the archivist, lifting the paint bucket above his head. He squeezes his eyes shut as he upends it right over the statements Jon is holding in his fists, just as another roll of thunder seems to shake the house to its foundations.

He can’t watch as he is may or may not killing the love of his life, saving the world and reality as we know it be damned because in this moment, as the paint pours out of its bucket and hits the pages, Martin wants to snatch back his hands and just let Jon go on, no matter the consequences. He knows he’s pathetic, that he’s being selfish and irresponsible as he wishes to turn back time, if not before Jon started reading, then at least before he himself picked up the paint- but right now, Martin knows, not suspects, not thinks or dreads, _knows_ , that he would trade in the whole world for Jon’s life in a heartbeat. But he didn’t, and now it’s too late.

At first, nothing happens, and another sentence tumbles from Jon’s lips, voice strained and cold as ever. It is only when Jon’s voice breaks off a moment later, that Martin realizes that Jon’s eyes must have already gone over the next few words while he’d been reading before the weight of the paint had torn the pages from his hands and, within a couple of seconds, had completely obscured and started to soak them in the lightest shade of green, almost white.

Outside, the thunder reaches its crescendo, but inside the little house that has not known inhabitants in such a long time it has almost forgotten how it feels to be a home to someone other than flies and spiders, there is utter silence as the sea of paint overshoots the edge of the table and sloshes down onto the floor. Only then does Martin open his eyes, drop the bucket to the floor and round the table until he can see Jon’s face.

His skin is utterly pale, worse than the day, the institute had been swarmed by worms and the two of them had cowered in one of the filing rooms after Sasha had left in a desperate attempt to save Tim, Jon still bleeding from where she had used Martin’s corkscrew to remove the worms and so terrified, he had struggled to even breathe. Jon’s face is still locked in an expression of both utter terror and the excruciating satisfaction, Elias’ words had forced him to feel and he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. His chest and shoulders stay perfectly still, and Martin holds his own breath to listen for Jon’s but to no avail.

“Jon”, he whispers, slowly reaching out with both hands to lay them down on Jon’s shoulders and squeeze, “ _Jon_ ”, he repeats, tears choking him off and pouring down his cheeks, hot and wet and burning as they leave his eyes, “Jon, don’t – don’t do this to me. I’m – I’m sorry but I couldn’t – I couldn’t let you- _Jon_ ”

Words fail him. There are no words, no sounds, nothing that can convey what is going on behind Martin’s eyes and the only thing, he can think, the only thing he can say, is _Jon_. His voice cracks when he keeps repeating it anyway; his lungs ache almost too much to let in any oxygen and his grip on Jon’s shoulders tightens as he starts shaking him.

“ _Please_ ”, he begs, “you can’t- you _can’t_ be dead. Not now that we were finally about to get our happy end – our happily ever after”, his voice rises higher with the stupid, empty platitude but he can’t help himself, “where you know that I love you and you don’t hate me and-“

“ _Martin_ ”

The word is almost lost in the gasp that finally forces Jon’s lips further apart and Martin stills, hands still clutching onto Jon’s shirt.

Jon’s eyes are bloodshot, pupils blown so wide, they almost eclipse the green around them as he takes another shaky breath, looks up at Martin, and almost manages to force his lips into a shaky smile.

“ _Jon_ ”, Martin repeats in a whisper, dimly aware of the fact, that there are other words he could, he _should_ be saying but his lips have lost the ability to form any other sounds and he pulls Jon’s stiff body into his arms, holding him far too tightly to be anywhere near comfortable but Jon clutches back just as tightly as soon as he manages to regain control over his arms, lets Martin pull him off his chair and down onto the floor, “Jon, I thought-“

“I know”, Jon rasps back when they finally pull apart far enough to see each other’s face, “I know Martin”, he sniffs, almost managing to laugh, eyes burning as he feels new tears run down his cheeks and lifts one shaky hand up to wipe them away on instinct, “I-“

His fingers come away black. Liquid darkness rolls down his fingers and paints a thin black-blue line around his wrist as both he and Martin stare at it in confusion and horror.

Jon opens his mouth again, but no words come out. Instead, he slaps his hand over his lips, jerks his head to the side, away from Martin, and gags behind his fingers. Before Martin can say, can think anything, Jon makes a feeble grab for the empty paint bucket that has come to a rest on its side right next to them and yanks it towards himself just as he starts retching in the deathlike silence the thunder has left in its wake, fingers desperately closing around the plastic rim, nails scraping against the dried and drying paint splatters.

“It’s alright”

Martin starts speaking before he regains the ability to form a coherent thought. He gets on his knees behind Jon and slings one arm around his middle when the arm, Jon is holding himself up with, gives in and he almost collapses forward, legs weak and useless. With his free hand, Martin tries to gather up as much of Jon’s hair and hold it back as he can while Jon’s shoulders continue to heave for what seems like forever, more and more darkness spilling from his lips as he struggles to breathe.

“It’s alright, I got you, you’re going to be fine”

He doubts that a single pair of scissors has even gotten near Jon’s head since he had woken up from his coma and the tips of half the strands Marin has managed to catch are already wet from-

Jon’s cheeks are wet as well, but the wetness feels different than normal tears or water and when Martin bends around him to look at his face, liquid darkness is still running down his cheeks. Ink, Martin finally realizes, still fighting to keep Jon in an upright position as his body first slacks, then goes taut and writhes in Martin’s hold and more and more ink leaks out, almost choking him.

“You’re going to be fine”, Martin insists over the sound of Jon’s broken sobs and gasps, “I promise”

“I don’t-“, Jon manages, before his shoulders heave again and he cuts himself off.

This time though, he feels something other than liquid rise in the back his throat, and before that thought can fully register, what feels like overripe cherries drop from his lips and hit the mixture of leftover paint and ink with a sickening sound. Every cell of his body, every inch of skin comes alive with hot, sharp pain and he wants to scream but-

He loses track of time as it goes on, of who and where he is and he briefly wonders if there had ever been a time, when his body had not shaken and contorted around itself, trying to get away from the living, pulsating agony that has unfurled in every fibre of his very being. Someone has set fire to his blood and with every moment, every breath he can’t keep his body from tearing form the air as it, against all logic, is determined to keep going, invisible flames spread further and further through his body, rampage through his veins and leave nothing but broken and shrunken wrecks in their wake.

“ _I don’t understand_ ”

Jon sounds so scarred, so utterly terrified and broken when he finally gets the words out that every meaningless word of comfort dies on Martin’s lips and he doesn’t dare reply- doesn’t dare to even think anything that might make it worse, _although, what exactly could be worse than-_

He doesn’t let himself finish the thought because lately the universe seems nothing short of determined to prove to them that of course anything can always be worse.

The sky had opened up almost as soon as Jon had started breathing again but by the time, he stops retching and the cramps that shake his whole body subside, the sun has set, and still the ink has not stopped dripping down his cheeks. The lower half of his face, his neck and chest glisten black and blue in the glow of the ceiling lights.

Head still bowed over the rim of the paint bucket, Jon’s shoulders rise and fall jerkily as he finally, finally manages to breathe in and out without something else crawling and oozing its way up his throat. He rests his forehead against the arm he has half slung over the plastic rim, for the moment only sucking in what air he can get from his position and shakily exhaling it a moment later.

After a couple of minutes, Martin carefully pulls Jon up from his slump and backwards into him, so Jon can lean his head against his shoulder instead, face turned to the side, so he can still breathe in Martin’s hold.

“Are you”, Martin eventually starts, and stops after the first two words as he tires and spectacularly fails to come up with a word, a phrase that somehow encompasses ‘okay’ and ‘not dying or changing into something’ without horribly oversimplifying, “…better?”

“I”, Jon whispers, breathing still heavy and laborious, as he forces his aching body to relax against the warm and painfully familiar shape of Martin’s body, “I think, that’s over at least”

“Good”, Martin says softly, as he carefully lays the hand that doesn’t belongs to the arm he has currently slung around Jon’s waist to hold him close, against Jon’s jowl and smooths it along his jawline until he can brush back the loose strands and tug them behind his ear.

“Yes”, Jon wants to laugh but his throat is raw, and little more than a pained cough comes out, “rather”

Martin continues petting his hair until Jon’s breathing has returned to normal. Only then, does he gently tilt Jon’s head back to look at his face, brushing away some of the black drops that are still dripping from his eyes, albeit more slowly.

“Well you look…”

“Kind of dreadful?”

“A little bit”

“I had an inkling, I might”, Jon’s lips barely move as he does speak, and he coughs again.

“Are you…?”, Martin starts again, and Jon merely looks up at him, blinking with heavy lids and he closes his mouth.

“You have to narrow that down a bit, I’m afraid”

Even before Jon has finished his sentence, both of them go still.

“You- you don’t know what I was about to ask?”

Martin does his best to keep the tremble out of his voice but right now all of this is too much; Jon has not needed anyone to fully formulate a question in months and-

“I”, Jon tries to sit up but quickly gives up his attempts and leans back against Martin’s chest when both, his limbs show no sign of wanting to comply to his wishes and Martin doesn’t loosen his hold around him, “I could make an educated guess? Or…”

His voice falters as he closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on knowing the second half of Martin’s question – _is he still human? Is he going to be sick again? in pain? Scarred? Going to be okay?_ Was it just the beginning of another question, whose beginning would have been different the second time Martin started?

Jon’s breathing speeds up and his chest tightens as he squeezes his eyes shut harder, desperately trying and failing to find the door that is shutting off the ocean of knowledge behind its frame and handle but there is nothing there, no trace of anything Jon can’t know from within-

“Jon”, Martin carefully taps the side of his face with the fingers that, up until now, have been busy with gently brushing against Jon’s hair and ink-stained skin, “Jon stop, you’re going to hurt yourself if-“

“I can’t”, Jon whispers, eyes opening wide and voice trembling, “I can’t reach for any information from outside”

He honestly doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry and judging from Martin’s expression, he feels about the same and they sit in silence for a moment, the only sound their slightly too hard breathing.

“Is”, Martin finally takes a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts, “is it possible, the eye… rejected you when you managed to stop reading?”

“When you saved the world, you mean?”, Jon blindly reaches for the hand Martin has splayed over his hip, closes his own fingers around it and squeezes Martin’s, “it would explain the ink and- o fuck”

“And what?”, this time, there is no mistaking the tremble in Martin’s voice for anything else, “What is it?”

“Did”, Jon closes his eyes again, a single drop of ink slipping out between his lids and running into his hair, “did you know that the avatars of the ceaseless watcher tend to develop… additional eyes all over their body at some point?”

“I”, Martin starts, swallows drily, then restarts, “that kind of makes sense- I mean not biologically but…”, he trails off with a vague gesture and Jon can’t help himself but snort quietly, which he immediately regrets when sharp pain flares up in the back of his throat.

“I had kind of suspected I had them when the all-knowing-thing first kept happening but now-“, he sighs, “I guess now we know I did, have them that is”

“You _had_? And how exactly-“

“Don’t look but I’m fairly certain, there’s more than ink and paint in there”

Jon’s hand trembles the tiniest bit as he points towards the paint bucket that still sits close enough to them to reach out and touch it.

Martin’s gaze follows the movement and his face goes pale when his eyes lands on the bucket and, from his position, he can just about make out a mass white and red shapes bobbing in the black liquid.

“Okay, that’s disgusting”

“I’m sorry-“

“Not you”, Martin cuts him off without even waiting to hear what exactly Jon thinks he should be sorry about, “ _obviously_ not you; I meant your- well, your ex-boss now, I guess?”

“I think you’re right”, Jon says slowly, and an utterly bewildered grin spreads over his lips, still shining black blue, “I don’t know for sure you’re- o god, Martin, you’re right”

He chokes out a breathless laugh, turning his head and burying it in Martin’s jumper, which is almost in as bad a state as his own shirt, still laughing despite the pain.

“I love that you’re sure I’m right because you can’t know whether I am”

“Me too”, Jon breathes, squeezing Martin’s hand so tightly in his that Martin winces, and Jon apologizes as he loosens his grip, “but not as much as I love you”

He does not have to look up to know that Martin’s face flushes at his words and the tips of his ears have gone pink by the time he nuzzles his face in Jon’s hair and hugs him tighter, mumbling, “I love you too”

“That I know”, Jon whispers against the soft wool and Martin laughs above him.


	2. II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He reaches out one hand to touch Jon’s face, but Jon turns his face and just about manages to catch Martin’s hand in his own.
> 
> “What is it?”
> 
> “I”, Jon shrugs weakly, “I just realized how gross this”, he makes a vague gesture towards himself, his face and neck, “actually is, and you really don’t have to-“
> 
> “Jon, I literally had a worm-monster stalk my home and we all worked with those things spreading around the institute for months before they attacked the archive, buried in our skin and tried to eat us alive”, Martin says very slowly, as if he’s trying to explain to a toddler, why exactly he can’t touch his hand the stovetop when it’s turned on and glowing red, “I did follow up on cases that involved people being eaten, cursed, turned into or stalked by monsters, chopped up or cursed to slowly fall apart and went through more autopsy reports and photos than anyone ever should – do you really think a bit of ink is going to be too much for me?”
> 
> “Considering where that ink came from”, Jon sighs, clearly aware that he had lost this argument before it had even begun, “…it might”

“Martin, I can’t possibly-“

“Yes, you _very_ _possibly_ can”

Martin doesn’t even turn around as he stuffs the rest of the soaked newspaper and paper towels into his overflowing binbag, and just about manages to tie it shut without half its contents spilling over the still damp floorboards, “now shut up and lie back down”

He can hear Jon grumble from the other side of the room as he drags himself to his feet, stretches his arms over his head and shoots another critical look at the parquet. Enough of the paint that had spilled onto the floor earlier had dried against the wood to be glaringly obvious as soon as you entered the room but considering he and Jon had been somewhat distracted with worrying about Jon maybe dying, Martin couldn’t really bring himself to care about the stains right now. So, they would have to try to scrape the paint off at some point but honestly? Who cared. Martin had at least managed to wipe the bits that had been still mostly liquid away as best as he could and that would have to do for now.

The entire upper floor still reeks off wall paint, even though Martin had yanked open the windows as soon as he had dared to leave Jon’s side for even a second. The remaining mess would have to wait until tomorrow, especially since Jon seems to already have forgotten that he’s supposed to rest and try to sleep but instead keeps insisting on helping Martin clean up at irregular intervals.

Never mind that most of the mess is the result of Martin’s little stunt with the paint, or that Jon literally can’t move yet without fighting the urge to scream in agony, never mind get up without his legs giving in straight away- all apparently being aspects that don’t particularly matter if you’re Jonathan Sims and only had two traumatic experiences that day. At this point Martin is seriously tempted to go through the drawers Daisy has stocked with all kind of provisions and gear and try to find a pair of spare handcuffs or anything that would keep Jon still on the living room’s sofa for some time.

Instead, Martin turns to face him just in time to see Jon’s mouth open, and he cuts him off before he can say anything; “And no, the mess was not your fault, you’re not responsible to get rid of it, and you don’t have to be sorry about anything”, he picks up the bag and starts towards the landing, “the only thing you have to do right now is try to relax and not put a strain on yourself, okay? Maybe sleep a little?”

An hour ago this had been less of a problem since Jon had been so drained and exhausted that he had not even complained about Martin carrying him over to the little sitting area and carefully laying him down on the soft cushions. He had half-expected Jon to pass out straight away, ruined clothes and ink still dried against his skin forgotten for the moment and he’d sat with him for a little over half an hour, until he’d been more or less confident that Jon was not about to start throwing up again or have some other kind of fit. Only then had he tugged the thin quilts that had been bundled at the foot of the sofa up to Jon’s chin, kissed the top of his head and gotten back to his feet.

He’d much rather tugged Jon in in their actual bed but the look in his eyes when Martin had suggested trying to sleep down the tiny hallway while he cleaned up the worst of the mess in the living room had been enough for Martin to try with the sofa instead. And Jon was just small enough to comfortably curl up on the worn-out thing with plenty of room to spare around him.

“I don’t want to sleep”, Jon tells Martin quietly when he returns from his trip to the bins downstairs, blankets pooling in his lap from when he’d sat up earlier and Martin drops down beside him, tugging the quilt back up. He’s still knackered, skin pale beneath the dark stains and lids heavy over his eyes and Martin his almost impressed by Jon’s stubbornness.

“Why not?”, he asks softly, bending over Jon to brush his hair out of his eyes.

There’s little black left among the grey these days and Jon’s eyebrows and lashes look almost unnaturally dark in comparison.

“Firstly”, Jon leans into the touch like a cat, closing his eyes for a moment when Martin lets his hand stay there, “I feel absolutely disgusting and I can still taste the stuff, the ink, on my tongue”

“Fair point”, Martin concedes, trying to decide whether Jon’s forehead feels warmer than normal or if his own hands are just chilly, “secondly?”

“I’m”, Jon sighs, not meeting Martin’s eyes as he opens his own, “I’m scarred what might happen if I do go to sleep, okay?”

“Jon…”

“I know, it’s stupid but-“

“No, it’s really not”, Martin says softly.

“but”, Jon ignores the interjection and goes on, “I can’t help it, I don’t want to dream about any of this and I don’t want to be out if something tries to get in here”

“How about we get you cleaned up”, Martin suggests after a couple of minutes, twirling an almost entirely grey strand around his finger, “then we both go to bed and I read to you until you doze off- or just close your eyes and try to not to think about anything for some time? I’ll watch the door and windows and wake you if I notice you’re having a nightmare or something else is wrong”

“Martin-“

“For fuck’s sake, Jon”, Martin heaves a deep sigh, but he’s smiling and Jon can see it from his position, “for once in your life, stop worrying and just say yes, if you’d like that”

“I would”, Jon’s voice is so soft, it almost gets lost on its short way from his lips to Marin’s ears, “yes”

“Okay”, Martin exhales around his smile, “good. Would you like to properly shower or just have a quick wash and get the worst of the stuff off?”

“I”, Jon casts his eyes down for a moment and swallows drily, “I don’t think I can stand that long yet”

Even sitting up earlier had sent his vision swimming and Jon had not even tried getting to his legs, even before Martin had told him off.

“I’ll be right back then, okay? I’ll leave all the doors open and you can call any time if something’s wrong”

A little colour has already returned to Jon’s cheeks and now they flush in the faintest shade of pink, but he doesn’t roll his eyes or retort anything glib, which Martin takes as a good sign.

By the time Martin returns with two towels, several washcloths and a big plastic bowl, filled halfway with warm water, halfway with towering white foam, Jon has taken off his ruined shirt and dropped it next to the couch, the dry fabric bundled around the ink stains.

“Do you want me to, or-“, Martin trails off and for a moment, the same, painfully awkward archival assistant that had barely managed to string together a full sentence when he’d first met the new archivist shines through and if Jon weren’t ninety percent sure, he would only end up knocking the bowl Martin his still holding to the floor, he would pull him down into his arms and kiss Martin until neither of them could remember a time before this tiny cottage in the middle of Scottish nowhere.

But things being the way they are, he only smiles weakly up at Martin and nods his head yes; “please”

“You should probably lay back down, here”, Martin spreads the towel over the sofa’s armrest Jon had been resting his head against, and eases Jon’s upper body downwards as soon as his hands are free again, “’m afraid this is going to take a while”

He reaches out one hand to touch Jon’s face, but Jon turns his face and just about manages to catch Martin’s hand in his own.

“What is it?”

“I”, Jon shrugs weakly, “I just realized how gross this”, he makes a vague gesture towards himself, his face and neck, “actually is, and you really don’t have to-“

“Jon, I literally had a worm-monster stalk my home and we all worked with those things spreading around the institute for months before they attacked the archive, buried in our skin and tried to eat us alive”, Martin says very slowly, as if he’s trying to explain to a toddler, why exactly he can’t touch his hand the stovetop when it’s turned on and glowing red, “I did follow up on cases that involved people being eaten, cursed, turned into or stalked by monsters, chopped up or cursed to slowly fall apart and went through more autopsy reports and photos than anyone ever should – do you really think a bit of ink is going to be too much for me?”

“Considering where that ink came from”, Jon sighs, clearly aware that he had lost this argument before it had even begun, “… _it might_ ”

Martin tsks and carefully untangles his hand from Jon’s to brush the tips of his fingers against Jon’s left cheek, wrinkling his forehead when they come away clean, “we should have probably done that before it had dried”

“Maybe”, Jon keeps his eyes fixed on Martin’s hand when he dips the corner of one of the washcloths into the foamy water and starts dabbing it against Jon’s jawline but he doesn’t pull away or make a sound.

Instead, he tilts his head slightly to the side to give Martin better access and Martin hums in acknowledgement. The water turns light blue when Martin returns the cloth to it a couple of seconds later and wrings it out in one hand. The area he had started with, looks just the same when he returns to it with another corner of the cloth.

“Is this okay?”, he asks Jon when he presses the cloth down a little harder, moving it a bit more insistently against the dried ink, “it’s just that it’s really dried against your skin”

“It’s fine”, Jon closes his eyes, trying to hold still as Martin continues to carefully scrub his jaw, “at least we know now, that the institute wasn’t cheap with the pens they had the subjects use”

Martin snorts; “About the only thing they were not cheap with if you ask me”

“What, you weren’t happy with your computer from the late nineties?”

“I think, I had to fill out seven applications, when I requested a new one, after I couldn’t risk turning it off anymore because every time I started it up again, it took like a dozen tries until it worked again, if I managed to turn it on at all.”

“So you _were_ the reason, we got shouted at for wasting electricity”, Jon opens his eyes, just in time to see Martin blush, “I _knew_ _it_ but Sasha said that I couldn’t-“, he stops, turning his head so he can avoid meeting Martin’s gaze.

“That you couldn’t what? Fire me on the grounds that I was killing the planet?”, Martin grins, gently tilting Jon’s back into its former position, “Jon?”, he asks a little more soberly when he doesn’t receive an answer.

“That I couldn’t blame anything bad that happened or went wrong on you- I’m sorry. I know I was being an ass for most of the time we worked together”

“But you’re not anymore”

Martin shrugs, as he drops his cloth, which is dark blue at this point, into the bowl, tilts his own head and critically takes stock of his progress up until now. The left side of Jon’s face still has ink clinging to it, but in a few patches, the stains are almost completely gone. Instead, the water in the bowl is now dark blue and Martin decides, that it probably would do more good to just get new water.

“I’ll be right back”

When he returns and sits down next to Jon again, the former archivist is squirming in his seat, lips pale with how tightly he is pressing them together.

“What? Did you think, I didn’t remember the first couple of months we worked together and how much you hated me back then?”

“I didn’t hate you”, Jon whispers, eyes still downcast.

“Fine, you thought I was annoying and incompetent then”

Jon doesn’t answer, his mouth feels uncomfortably dry.

“Well, I didn’t really know what I was doing at first”, Martin continues in an easy, matter of fact tone of voice and Jon feels the weight of his bad conscience settle on his shoulders like a soaked, woollen cloak, “and I _was_ ludicrously awkward around you”

“And I, according to Melanie, was an arrogant prick”

“Maybe”, a spare drip rolls down Jon’s neck and makes it all the way down to his navel before it runs out, “to tell you the truth, I mostly remember constantly feeling guilty about my CV and that I was wasting your time, which was why you were so…”

“bitchy?”, Jon is still talking to the paint stains on his trousers rather than Martin directly.

“I’d have said on edge, but sure”, he hears the smile in Martin’s voice but somehow that makes it even worse, so Jon just swallows drily, “but honestly, I was already so smitten with you, you could have probably poured the tea I made you over my head and I wouldn’t have blamed you”

“O god, Martin I-“

“Jon, that was two years ago, we both changed since then. A lot, I would say”, Martin stops mopping at the last fleck still remaining on Jon’s left cheek, and instead bends further over him to brush his lips against Jon’s brow, “and if it makes you feel better; now I would definitely tell you off, if you pulled something like that again”

His breath washes against Jon’s forehead and tousles his hair the tiniest bit. Jon’s eyes soften and his lips part by a hair.

“In person, or would I get a strongly worded letter?”

“I think, I’d safe the postage and rather just tell you to get lost”

“I’d kind of really like to see that”

“You keep going like this and you might”

Martin is still quietly laughing, when he picks up another cloth and starts scrubbing at Jon’s chin and neck.

“I’m aware you can’t stand hearing it anymore, but I’m still sorry I was like that”

“You know what they say; nothing like some monsters and the looming threat of the apocalypse to change a man. But really, Jon, it’s alright. I like the current you just fine”, he kisses Jon’s temple this time, hands only stilling for a moment, “and who knows, one day you might wake up and suddenly like poetry and I’ll completely loose my mind over you”

“I like the current you as well”, Jon echoes lamely, but his mouth doesn’t feel like a lifeless dessert anymore and he manages to look up and into Martin’s eyes.

“Good”, Martin says, so casually he might as well trade his roundish glasses in for a pair that has pink, heart-shaped lenses instead, “cool”

“Yes”

Jon grins around the yawn that is forcing his lips apart the next moment. His teeth still have a slightly blue-grey sheen to them Martin notices while he waits for Jon to hold still again, so he can continue without sluicing soap-water into Jon’s mouth.

“I’m halfway done now, I think”, Martin informs him the next time he returns from the bathroom with fresh water, “I’m just afraid, your face’s going to be a little sore afterwards”

“Dry skin works wonders if some creepy clown-doll tries to take off your skin and use it to bring about the end of the world”

“…I might still pick you up some lotion or something next time I’m going to the shops”

“Thank you”

Martin hums quietly in return and they sit in silence for some time, until Martin goes to change the water for the last time and has to wait for Jon to finish yawning again before he can go on.

“Tired?”

“I’m not used to this whole being-open-about-your-emotions thing”, Jon barely manages to fight of the next yawn but if Martin’s face is anything to go by, his efforts aren’t really doing anything, “more draining that I would have thought”

“Perhaps the whole getting possessed, almost ending the world, and oh, yeah, the getting bodily rejected from your spooky eldritch-horror-monster-boss business is playing into that as well”

“Perhaps”

Martin rolls his eyes but lowers his hands, scans Jon’s face and neck one last time for any remainders of ink and finally sets both bowl and cloth down on the tiny coffee table next to the couch. Instead he carefully dabs a clean towel against the rather tender and warm skin he has successfully uncovered beneath the dried ink.

“Good thing that we’re done here then”

“Thanks and-”

“You’re officially not allowed to apologize anymore today and have only one thank you left”

“Or what?”

Martin purses his lips for a moment, squinting down at Jon, who is weakly grinning beneath heavy eyelids, “or I change all your passwords into meaningless rows of numbers you won’t be able to remember, even if I tell them to you”

“You would need my current passwords in order to do that”, Jon feels like he should point out but notices his mistake the moment, the corner of Martin’s mouth twitches.

“Your current _password_ ; You use the same one for everything – which you really shouldn’t do because-“

“Because you would not hesitate to take advantage of that fact?”

“Because it’s _unsafe_ , you dinosaur”

“I’m-“ _the same age as you, if not according to my CV_.

“I’m listening”

“…how long have you known?”

“That you’re not almost forty? The moment I first saw you, like everyone else?”

“Did everyone know – I mean except Eli-Jonah?”

“Well, I guess everyone who had seen your details and then you in person. No offence, but almost ten years is the amount of time you wouldn’t want to lie about because it’s too obvious. You also filled in the ‘wrong’ year for date of birth in your paperwork last year and I noticed before I sent it off”

Jon sighs as he closes his eyes for a moment.

“I guess, it’s not like Jonah would have said anything, is it?”

“I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about. My west is spotless and clean”

“I see”, Jon squints up at Martin but yawns again midway through and Martin laughs softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so very much for reading - and especially for your lovely comments! Honestly, knowing you people like my stuff and had a good time reading it (either apart from or because of the eyes) is amazing and I always love hearing what you have to say, so, by all means, keep them coming, it would make me insanely happy!
> 
> ...depending on whether you enjoyed this chapter as well, I'll post the one that used to be the final chapter next week on either thursday or friday - although, I did write at least one additional chapter since it was so fun and if you wouldn't terribly mind, I'll simply add to this until everyone is sick of it.
> 
> lots of love <3


	3. III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay”, Basira lets out a shaky laugh, falling back in her seat and crossing her legs in front of her, “fine by me, no more saving the world then”
> 
> “No, and hopefully no more causing any more apocalypses either”, Jon agrees and Martin, flicks his ankle.
> 
> “That’s not funny”
> 
> “I’m aware”, he nudges Martin’s thigh in reply who catches his foot and keeps his hold around it, “I was there”
> 
> “I remember. Vividly”

By the time Jon finally stops fighting sleep, or rather is overcome by it, Martin isn’t quite sure, the tiny alarm-clock on his nightstand tells him it’s a little past nine. The book Martin had chosen to read to Jon - some aggressively mediocre high-fantasy tome that weighs about as much as the bed itself, and which he had figured at least stood a chance of being too boring even for Jon, who choses documentaries on the traditional production of handmade fans as movies to watch during movie nights - finds a resting place next to the clock. Almost a third in, a discarded slip of paper peeks out between the yellowed pages.

Jon’s head rests heavily against Martin’s pyjama-clad shoulder as he’s slowly breathing in and out, his face half buried in the soft fabric but, for once, open and relaxed. He has thrown one arm across Martin’s belly and a leg pushed between Martin’s, his whole body pressed as tightly against Martin beneath the blankets as is physically possible and even fast asleep, he shows no sign of wanting to let go but rather clings tighter when his face screws up in his sleep from time to time.

His hair is still damp and smells faintly of coconut, but it’s finally no longer matted against his head in blue-black strands. Before bed, he had tied his hair in a loose pony tail in an attempt to not have it get into Martin’s face as he slept but it had started getting undone almost as soon as he’d settled down next to- well, _half on top_ of Martin.

Martin just about manages to reach the light switch on his bedside lamp and place his finger on it without disturbing Jon when he thinks better of it and leaves the light on. It’s not bright enough to really disturb Jon’s sleep and Martin figures, a little light will probably make it easier to stay awake.

Watching the warm light paint shadows down Jon’s cheeks and listening to his slow breathing and the soft noises he occasionally makes whilst sleeping keeps Martin entertained for longer than it should, and he doesn’t even notice, he’s dozed off himself until he wakes up shortly after sunrise when his left arm pipes up because someone has replaced all the bones and veins in it with needles and sand during the night. He ignores it and instead finally does switch off the lamp. He still has an arm wrapped around Jon’s back and side and holds him close as the sky outside slowly looses the blush the rising sun had painted between its clouds.

Jon has not moved from his spot, only his lips have parted the tiniest bit over the last couple of hours and his breathing is a little louder in the morning quiet. He’s the most beautiful thing Martin has ever seen, even with the tangled black and grey strands that lay about his head in an unruly mess that doesn’t stop on Jon’s half of the pillow, the scars creeping up his shoulder and neck from where the shirt he’d stolen from Martin has slipped off his shoulder and the faint white line across his throat from Daisy’s blade way back when. The scars don’t stop where Jon’s clothes start and his face still looks a little too sharp and he’s still too thin in general, but little more can be expected after only a couple of weeks without constant stress or peril and proper meals Martin makes him have instead.

The prickling spreads from Martin’s arm to his hand, reaching for the tips of his fingers and he balls a fist around it, hissing under his breath but he doesn’t move an inch away. Partly because he promised to watch over Jon all night which has already gone as well as you’d expect, partly because he really doesn’t want to disturb Jon and honestly, how long can one former archivist/avatar of the beholding really sleep at a stretch?

Apparently longer than Martin would have thought because the only sign of life he gets from Jon, apart from the slow rise and fall of his chest against Martin’s side, until midday is when the distant sound of their doorbell cuts through the silence but even then does he merely turn his head, shift so his leg slips off Martin’s and doesn’t stir beyond that. Martin plans to just ignore whoever has rung and stay right there with Jon but just when he’s sure, they’re gone, the person starts rapping against the front door instead, calling something that doesn’t quite reach the upper floor and Martin sighs.

He tries to be as careful and gentle as he can when he slowly edges out from underneath Jon, pausing when he’s finally made it to his feet to wait for Jon’s reaction but all he does is roll over onto his stomach and hug the blankets to his chest instead of Martin. If the sound of a fist knocking against wood would not persist even as Martin makes his way downstairs on bare feet, hair still mussed and glasses askew on the bridge of his nose, he would consider taking a moment to just take in the sight of Jon snuggling their bedclothes but he worries too much that their unbidden visitor might start ringing the doorbell again and doesn’t want to push his luck with what exactly Jon manages to sleep through this morning.

“What do you want?”, he asks even before the door has opened far enough the see who’s standing in front of him.

“What _I_ want?”, Basira repeats, already halfway in the foyer and Martin sighs as he closes the door behind her.

“Yes”, he crosses his arms in front of his chest and leans backwards against the doorframe as he watches her, already pacing back and forth in front of the stairs, “and please keep your voice down”

“It’s half past eleven”

“Yes, and Jon’s asleep upstairs so keep it down”

“Okay”, Basira stops dead in her tracks, eyes just on this side of too wide.

Martin can’t remember the last time he’d seen anyone who worked for the archive that didn’t have pallid skin and bags under their eyes but Basira looks like she hasn’t slept in a week.

“I know you don’t want me here; we can make it quick”

She doesn’t wait for Martin to disagree, which is just as well.

“I take it you haven’t been following the news since yesterday”

Martin’s stomach drops at her words and he shakes his head, mouth suddenly dry

“What is it?”

“Elias’ dead, the institute’s gone”

“What- How?”

“Yesterday afternoon; the tunnels beneath the archive collapsed and took most of the building down. It had still officially been closed so they didn’t search it at once but a couple of hours later they found Elias’ body in the foyer”

“The current or the first one?”

“Current”

“And was he… was it an accident when the building went down?”

“Officially? Very much so”

“And unofficially?”

“Unofficially there is no cause of death. His body just stopped and at this point none of the injuries they did find from where it had been hit by the rubble were serious enough to cause his death though- why exactly are you smiling?”

“Because Elias is dead and the archive’s gone”, Martin barely manages to get the words out around his grin. He even considers hugging Basira for a moment but quickly discards that idea and instead turns towards the stairs and heads upstairs, “you want tea or coffee?”

“Martin, this is serious-“

“It’s seriously good news”, Martin cuts her off as he heads towards the bedroom door, pokes in his head to see Jon still curled up amidst the sheets and gently pushes the door to.

When he turns, he almost walks straight into Basira who followed him without making a sound.

“You can sit anywhere, it’s just still a bit of a mess”

“A bit”

Basira raises an eyebrow at the clothes and pieces of paper, the boxes and the paint and ink stains that cover most of the floor and a table that looks like someone has thrown a gallon of paint over and then just left. The room still reeks of paint and something else she can’t quite put into words. Martin opens the windows as soon as he’s returned with two steaming mugs.

“Well yesterday wasn’t exactly a picnic for us either”

“Did you- did _Jon_ do anything?”

“It’s kind of a long story”

“Lucky for you, I have time”

Recounting yesterday’s events takes both a lot more and a lot less time than Martin would have thought and by the end of it, Basira sits still for a moment and does nothing but slowly blink, blindly staring ahead at a point just above Martin’s head.

“So, within one afternoon, you two managed to almost unleash literal hell on earth, stopped it, possibly killed Elias and got Jon out of the Beholding’s service?”

“Basically, yes”

Jon’s voice should be far too soft to make both Basira and Martin jump but that doesn’t seem to matter.

“Hey”, Martin says softly, “I didn’t want to wake you earlier- did we-“

“No, no it’s fine, I think I’m okay now, just”, Jon trails off as his vision swims and he leans a little more heavily against the doorframe in an attempt to stop his legs from shaking, “hi, Basira”

“Hi”, Basira says slowly, “Jon, don’t take it personally but you don’t look that well”

“I- don’t worry about it“, he had not even noticed his fingers grappling at the smooth wood in an desperate search for purchase until they come up empty and he feels his knees give in beneath him, “although on second thought-“

He had also failed to notice Martin getting to his feet and hurrying the last couple of steps towards him, just in time to catch him before he fell.

“Thanks”, he tells Martin when he helps him back up and Martin rolls his eyes so expansively, Basira can see it clearly from where she has half gotten to her feet and now just hovers, waiting for anything that might give her a clue about what to do next.

“Do you guys need help or…?”

“No, it’s-“

“You’re officially no longer allowed to say ‘fine’”, Martin tells Jon as they make their laborious way back to the sofa and Martin makes him lay down again, “you could have just stayed in bed and called, you know”

“I did feel f-“, Jon cuts himself off when Martin glares at him and shrugs weakly, trying not to wince when the pain that had died down during the night returns with full force, “I felt alright until I stopped at the door and my body just kind of…”, he makes a vague gesture as Martin pushes the single armchair closer towards the couch and offers Basira to sit down again, taking his own seat at Jon’s feet.

“So that’s it then”, Basira finally presses on, gaze still darting from Jon’s, who looks almost as bad as he did the day he’d awoken form his coma, to Martin, “all’s okay now, it’s over”

“Well, the eye’s definitely still out there, it just apparently decided it didn’t want me anymore and, when Elias’ plan failed, it got rid of him for good”

“But we don’t know when the next ritual’s going to be and with the institute’s gone…”

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that anymore”, Jon says softly.

“We don’t”, Basira’s voice does not rise as it reaches the end of her question.

“Elias seems to be the only one to have figured out, how to pull off a successful ritual, if it weren’t for Martin – apart from Gertrude and Peter but they won’t tell anyone any time soon”

“Us too, more or less”, Martin adds, “and since Jon used to be the only one who could have done it …”

“Why him- no, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know”, Basira shakes her head, scrubbing a hand over her forehead and eyes, “just; you said ‘could have’ – so you… can’t anymore”

“Not unless I get back in with the beholding and since I didn’t get as far as actually reading the spell Elias wanted me to read out and I can’t just _know_ things anymore…”

“You _can’t_ ”

“No, the eye made it quite clear what it thinks of me, and I’m pretty sure Martin here’s not in its good graces anymore either”

“Okay”, Basira lets out a shaky laugh, falling back in her seat and crossing her legs in front of her, “fine by me, no more saving the world then”

“No, and hopefully no more causing any more apocalypses either”, Jon agrees and Martin, flicks his ankle.

“That’s not funny”

“I’m aware”, he nudges Martin’s thigh in reply who catches his foot and keeps his hold around it, “I was there”

“I _remember_. Vividly”

Jon doesn’t reply but the corner of his mouth twitches.

“And you two…?”, Basira asks a little more gently because honestly, she’d rather finish up with all new developments at once and this one doesn’t even count as new.

“Yes”

Jon doesn’t bat an eyelash, while Martin tries and fails not to look too giddy. She can see how stiffly Jon is holding himself even as he settles down on his side and rests his head against the armrest but he doesn’t make a sound.

“I owe Melanie then”, Basira sighs and shakes her head slowly, “I thought, you’d never manage to work things out”

“Fair enough”, Jon shrugs as best as he can shrug from his position, “Although most of that’s on my head I guess”

“You _guess_ ”, Martin echoes as he gets up and starts towards the kitchen.

“He has a point, you know”, Basira tells Jon before she follows Martin, who has not wasted any time but has already set most things they would need for breakfast down on the counter and is currently pouring flour into a bowl.

“I’m aware”, Jon says far too late for either of them to catch it, sighing quietly as he resigns himself to just try and settle into a somewhat comfortable position and wait. He doubts either Martin, Basira or his own body would appreciate him having another go at trying to walk more than five steps on his own, “I’m quite aware”

They make it almost all the way through a breakfast that can barely justify calling itself ‘brunch’ before idle chit-chat turns more serious again.

“Have you heard anything from Daisy yet?”, Jon asks and Basira sighs as she drops the last bite of pancake back onto her plate and instead leans back in her armchair, never taking her eyes off of Jon.

“No one’s seen her, heard from her, nothing”, she shakes her head, “when I came here I actually wanted to ask you whether you could…”, she trails off for a moment, then continues, “but that’s off the table I guess”

“I’m sorry”

“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing in the grand scheme of things“, Basira shrugs just as Martin says;

“ _Some_ _people_ kept giving you a really hard time for knowing stuff and not being human”, he doesn’t put too much effort into trying not to openly glare at Basira, who holds his gaze, as he speaks, “so _they_ should probably think really long and hard about complaining about you being, you know, more or less normal, again”

“I get it, Martin”, Basira doesn’t blink as she speaks, “I’m not going to apologize, because I was right but-“

“How exactly were you right? Jon never-“

“-never just about ended the world?”

“He didn’t-“

“She’s right, Martin”, Jon interrupts him in a soft voice.

“She isn’t!”, Martin’s voice takes on a higher pitch, “if you had known, you’d have never-“

“And if you hadn’t stopped me, it wouldn’t really have mattered, would it?”

“…it would have”, Martin says after a short pause, voice quiet but firm.

“To you and me? Maybe. To a whole world filled with nothing but suffering, fear, human pain, and misery? Not so much”, Jon laces his fingers with Martin’s and squeezes his hand before he turns back to Basira, “I’m afraid the only thing I can tell you, is that I didn’t know she was dead or in imminent danger, until yesterday at least. I’m sure, I would have known if she had died, but I could never get a clear picture of her after she’d left”

“Thank you”

“I take it, you’ll probably focus on finding her now?”

“Nothing better to do”, Basira takes up her cup again, mock-casually, “Not like either of us has a job to take into consideration anymore is it?”

“No, I guess, you’re right”, Jon purses his lips, voice growing fainter as he nears the end of his sentence.

“Are you okay?”, Martin asks carefully.

“Yes”, Jon’s eyes refocus, and he shakes his head, “yes, of course. I just”, he rakes a handful of loose streaks out of his face, and, laughing hollowly, goes on; “I just didn’t expect _unemployment_ to be our next biggest worry”

“Well, at least we can apply for new jobs now”, Martin points out, “I’m pretty sure the archive’s done and even if they reopen it at some point, our contracts should have …expired with Elias- Jonah dying, shouldn’t they?”

“I think, we’ll see about that”, Jon muses before he turns back to Basira, “do you have anywhere safe to stay right now?”

“Honestly? When it got really bad last year and we all basically lived in the archives, I quit my flat and had all my stuff moved to a storage unit. And since they at least kept paying us, I’ll be fine with just my car until I find Daisy and then…”, she trails off but catches herself, “maybe I’ll take a leaf out of these two hunters’ book and just continue hunting monsters until something gets me. Nothing really here to hold me”

They sit in silence for a while, until a sudden burst of wind yanks the windows further apart with a bang and Martin goes to properly close them.

“And you’ll be staying here?”, Basira asks when Martin returns.

“For the near future”, Jon fights the urge to yawn between the words, “until yesterday, we didn’t really plan for anything that’s more than a couple of weeks away. You could stay here for some time, the ground floor’s something of a mother-in-suite downstairs so you wouldn’t-”

“No, thanks but no. I can’t really afford to lose much more time and, I don’t think we”, her gaze flicks towards Martin who had forced his face into an aggressively blank expression while Jon had talked, “would make great flatmates”

“I just thought, I’d ask”

“Like I said, thanks but I’m good. I got a room in the bed and breakfast in the village for tonight and I don’t think, I’ll stick around much longer unless I happen to run into Daisy while I’m here. Speaking of”, she lifts her satchel onto her lap and fishes out a thick, yellow envelope, “I don’t suppose you need these anymore”

Jon makes no move to accept the envelope, so Martin takes it and carefully places it onto the coffee table among the remainders of their late breakfast.

“Thanks”

“I’ll be off then, didn’t really sleep last night”

Basira climbs to her feet and shoulders her bag.

“Take care”, Jon says softly as she starts towards the door, “and if you need anything-“

“I’ll let you know”, she turns one last time and waves, “see you”

The moment the front door closes behind Basira, Jon leans into Martin. His vision is blurry, and a steady throb has taken up residence behind his eyes. He is not a hundred percent sure, he’ll manage to get up again, never mind walk.

“Martin”

“I know, I shouldn’t have said that but, it’s true; neither she nor Melanie-“

“They had their own problems, and I didn’t exactly make things easy on them”

“They wanted to _kill you_ ”, Martin can’t quite keep his voice from breaking, “and they would have if-“

“ _Martin_ ”, Jon whispers as he reaches up and cups Martin’s face in the palms of his hands.

Every move he makes hurts, but he doesn’t make a sound as he tugs Martin’s head down far enough to kiss the rest of his words off his lips. He only pulls back and presses his forehead against Martin’s when he feels Martin relax against him.

“I think, we should just let it go, okay?”, Jon whispers, voice hoarse and face screwed up despite himself.

“Probably, it’s not like it helps”, Martin sighs, his shoulders slouching as he exhales and slings an arm around Jon’s waist, hugging him close, “how are you feeling? Does it still hurt?”

“A little”

“And by ‘a little’ you mean, ‘a whole lot, everywhere’ I take it?”

Martin does not sound impressed.

“I’m mostly tired”, Jon lies through a loud yawn, not bothering to force his eyes open as long as no one can actually see them with his face nestled in the crook of Martin’s neck, “still”

Martin heaves another sigh but presses his lips against the top of Jon’s head, “you want to sleep here or go back to bed? I’d just get my laptop and-”

“You know, you don’t have to sit with me every time, right?”

“Like I said, I got nothing better to do”, Martin points out, “besides you’re cute when you’re asleep and it’s kind of relaxing to have you next to me”

 _Besides there is no chance in hell, I’ll leave you on your own until this, whatever it is, is over._ But it would do little for either of them if he said it out loud. It’s not like they don’t both know it anyway.

“I’m not cute. I’ve never been cute”

Jon’s voice comes out muffled against Martin’s pyjama jacket, who is rubbing tiny circles into Jon’s back. He’s half asleep by the time, Martin angles Jon’s upper body so it comes to a rest against his legs and the sofa cushions.

“Of course not”, Martin whispers when Jon buries his face in Martin’s stomach.

They’re both still in their pyjamas and barefoot and it’s getting ridiculous but Martin would be damned if he said anything when Jon curls up around him, pulling up his knees and knotting his fingers in Martin’s pyjama, while Martin places one hand on Jon’s side. He can feel every rib through his skin and shirt. His other hand is already busy with running through Jon’s hair and brushing it out of his face, “of course not”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so much for reading. I kind of decided to go all out with a happy end for the them, which will be expanded upon a little, but even until then, they are safe now.
> 
> Thank you for your amazing comments as well, they really mean a lot to me.
> 
> Lots of love <3


	4. IV.

The following weeks pass in a blur that somehow manages to feel like a second and a whole decade all at once.

Once the last remainders of adrenaline wear off and nothing else happens that would get more of it flowing, Jon spends the majority of his time asleep and, after some initial attempts of just going on as if nothing had happened, finally concedes and no longer tries to ignore his body’s complaints. Instead, he rarely strays more than a couple of paces from the bed or sofa or –to Martin’s discontent - chair he had last dozed off on and simply tries everything he can to keep the frustration that has settled in his stomach at bay.

Martin stays at his side most of the time and it’s lovely to finally settle down with his boyfriend and not have to worry all the time but sometimes, all Jon wants to do is scream when he tries to leave the house on his own and his legs give in before he’s even reached the stairs, or when he wakes up and his head is already heavy with a splitting headache that makes it impossible to do anything else than lay silently in the dark and try to go back to sleep as fast as he can.

Most days are okay, and he spends his waking hours being soft with Martin, watching stupid movies whilst cuddled up to his boyfriend or reading whatever book is laying about in his proximity, half the time loudly complaining to Martin about the worst bits – or sometimes the whole thing. There are also days, Jon can’t decide whether he wants to cry out in pain or frustration, and he feels like he’s being drained of what little energy that is supposedly coming back to him.

On those days, he asks Martin to leave him alone in their bedroom even though the last thing he wants when he’s in that place is being on his own. But it’s not Martin’s fault he’s in pain and irritable and Jon would much rather let his other hand be burned than let his frustration out on his boyfriend- especially since Martin has been bending over backwards to try and make him happy basically ever since the day they’d first met.

The fact that, nine times out of ten, Martin will quietly slip into the room, headphones already on his ears, sit down next to Jon and hold his hand while Jon’s body contorts into near impossible positions in a hopeless attempt of getting comfortable, helps. On those occasions Martin keeps his mouth shut and his eyes trained to his phone or book, squeezing Jon’s hand in his from time to time to let Jon know he’s still there, all the while turning up the volume of the music or podcast he’s put on just enough to not hear Jon curse and lash out against the whole world and everyone he’s ever known beside him. He might not let Jon shut himself off with his pain, but he can leave him the dignity of not being watched and overheard as he gives up control and from time to time gets out nothing but choked moans and dry sobs.

Martin only directly looks up and takes off his headphones when Jon finally slips into a dreamless slumber or reaches up and touches the tips of his fingers to Martin’s jaw when it either gets too bad or it’s finally over and he can bear anyone else’s presence beside him.

Sometimes they stay like this for whole afternoons and the rest of the day drags on while Martin tries his best to distract Jon or get him to at least drink something when he can’t bring himself to eat. He doesn’t mention that most of the tea he makes for Jon on those days ends up sitting on the nightstand for hours until it’s cold and bitter and has to be thrown out but the smell seems to help.

The thing is, that Jon knows he’s getting better. He can feel his body slowly coming around and get stronger again and at some point, even the bad days don’t feel like he’s trapped within his own pain and helpless anger anymore. After a little over a fortnight, his head stops swimming every time he sits up, a couple of weeks later he doesn’t need to sleep two hours for every hour he’s awake anymore and slowly moving about no longer makes him want to scream. The progress is maddingly slow though.

It’s almost as if his body is deliberately taking its time, pointing out to Jon that no, it actually cannot be sustained by four hours of sleep every couple of days, cigarettes and statements instead of food and he better not try something like that again.

“Well, if that’s true, your body does have a point, you know”

Martin laughs when Jon tells him one rainy afternoon and kisses the sharp lines that edge themselves into Jon’s forehead whenever he frowns indignantly up at his boyfriend, which has gotten a lot more seldom since the word ‘boyfriend’ has started getting its fair share of use.

They are sitting outside on the porch, watching the grey sky and the sheets and sheets of rain turning the area into a cold swampland, huddled beneath every blanket they’d been able to find inside on a set of the most ramshackle lawn-chairs they had ever seen. It’s been the first three subsequent days Jon has been able to move about without being in constant pain or feeling too dizzy to stand on his own and it’s chilly and wet and utterly perfect, just sitting in silence, Martin’s soft, warm hand in his.

“Maybe, but that point has been made if you ask me”

“If you say so”, Martin pauses only as long as it takes for Jon to make a face, then goes on, “you look a lot better though”

“Lucky for me that the bar for that hasn’t been too high in the last years”

“Well, sleep and real food have their advantages- hey look”

Martin points towards the little clearing before the forest opposite their house across the street.

“What is it?”, Jon asks, squinting at the rain and wind that is slowly but surely washing the world of its colours.

“A deer- it’s right there, at the edge of the woods, next to the sign”

“There’s a sign?”

Jon’s eyes are little more than two dark lines with how hard he’s screwing up his face whilst following Martin’s pale hand pointing straight ahead.

“…It’s about six foot tall and bright red”

Martin drops his hand as he faces his boyfriend instead of the deer that’s (very clearly visibly from their position even through the rain) still ambling along the outskirts of the forest.

“Jon, how far exactly can you see clearly?”

“Well”, Jon says slowly, trying to make out what’s in front of him without squinting, “…there’s our driveway, our letterbox, a signpost, then the clearing and forest”

“And what does the signpost read?”

“I don’t remember, I didn’t really get the chance to get a feel for the area before-“

“Jon, that thing’s huge”

Martin takes off his own glasses, takes one look at the sign, eyes barely narrowing, then shakes his head.

“So?”, Jon asks, ready to feel validated because the writing looks so blurred from their position, surely-

“It clearly says ‘towncenter’”

“No, it doesn’t; it took us almost half an hour to get from there to the cottage”

Martin looks at Jon like he’d looked when Jon had told him, he’d accidentally stabbed himself with a butter knife, and Jon falters.

“Try again”, Martin says as he presses his glasses into Jon’s hand, “any better?”

“…a little”, Jon admits, lips tight, “but your prescription was always a lot weaker than mine, so…”

“When exactly was the last time you wore your own glasses?”, Martin asks as he takes his own back and replaces them on his nose.

“I”, Jon starts, but pauses again, realizing he doesn’t know for sure, “I think, either Breekon or Hope- one of them knocked them off when they took me to Nikola and, I think, I didn’t really need them anymore at that point? I mean, I don’t remember getting, or taking them back and I had no problem with my eyes afterwards, I”, he sighs, pinching the back of his nose, “I remember, actually not getting these really bad headaches anymore, after Helen got me out- stop laughing, Martin”

“Nope”, Martin shakes his head, still laughing, “You can be such a dunce, you know”

“Hey”

“It’s almost impressive”, Martin goes on, laughter slowly ebbing away, “I always thought that scene, where Spiderman realizes he suddenly has a six-pack and doesn’t need his glasses anymore and just went with it was stupid but apparently-“

“Don’t remind me of that movie”

Jon does not quite manage to not have the shudder than runs through him, be heard in his voice.

“Sorry”

“And it’s not like I woke up one morning with normal eyesight and toned muscles-“

“Well, _that_ _much_ is obvious”

Martin pointedly drops his gaze to his own jumper hanging off Jon’s pointy shoulders and elbows almost three sizes too large, bundling around his legs and reaching almost halfway down his thighs. Trousers and shoes being about the only pieces of clothing Jon doesn’t even attempt to steal from him as they hang off his legs and feet so large, he can’t actually walk without either tripping over or loosing them.

Jon’s mouth involuntarily falls open when he stares at his boyfriend.

“ _Hey_ ”, is all he had manages, most of his concentration focused on fighting the urge to cross his arms in front of his chest, which would send the sleeves he had rolled up flopping through the air.

“I’m sorry”, Martin repeats, more soberly this time, pressing his lips against his boyfriend’s forehead, which at least smooths down the lines on Jon’s forehead a little.

“You know I didn’t mean- you’re way more beautiful than that guy”

“Even without any detectable muscles”

Jon raises an eyebrow, but his face goes soft almost as soon as the tips of Martin’s ears turn pink.

“And honestly, I’m the last person in the world who should complain about his boyfriend’s appearance-“

The last word had barely gotten out before Jon is clamping one hand over Martin’s lips.

“No”, he tells Martin firmly, looking right into his eyes, “You are perfect, so don’t even try to say something else”

He keeps his hand in place for a few moments longer, all the while holding Martin’s gaze, his own eyes and the rest of his face so intense that any thought of protest evaporates from Martin’s head. Replaced with a rather more intense version of the warm, fuzzy feeling that starts in the pit of his stomach and spreads throughout his whole body while Jon continues to look at him as if he’s daring Martin to disagree with him.

For a heartbeat, Martin thinks that that lecture might be worth it, but Jon’s right; the time for beating himself up over his looks is over and honestly has no place in the here and now he shares with Jon who keeps looking at him like he’d hung the moon.

“Okay?”, Jon finally asks, a faint blush spreading over his own cheeks when lets his hand drop between them, blindly searching for Martin’s and lacing their fingers as he presses his forehead against his boyfriend’s, “I’m sorry, I just-“

“You _are_ adorable”, Martin whispers as he hugs Jon tight and basically lifts him into his own lap.

“That lawn-chair is not going to bear both of our weight”, Jon mutters as he lays his head against Martin’s shoulder and clings back.

One day, one day they might stop clinging to each other every chance they got but Jon has the feeling that that day was a long way off and he couldn’t care less; they had spent far too much time miserable and alone and there’s no reason to prolong that, not when Martin seems to share his need for affection and is more than willing to take care of it. Especially after their last year at the archives…

“There’s an optician at the-“, Martin starts a couple of minutes later but then the frail cloth and wood give in under their combined weight with a surprisingly loud _crack_ and yelp from Jon and they both land on the floor, Martin instinctively tightening his hold around Jon.

There’s a moment of stunned silence before Jon asks, if Martin’s okay, just as Martin says; “fuck, _ow_ ”

“ _I told you_ ” 

Jon’s voice rises towards the end of his sentence but it’s almost drowned out when Martin starts laughing so hard his face goes red and tears build up in the corners of his eyes as he throws back his head, still holding Jon as close as if he’s afraid, he might float away any moment.

“Are you- _stop laughing, Martin_ ”

“ _No_ ”, Martin shakes his head, just before he kisses Jon with a little too much force that only doesn’t succeed in knocking him backwards since Martin is still holding him close, “I’m fine, don’t worry”

“If there’s anything I’ll never stop, it’s worrying about you, you strange, strange person”

“That’s sweet of you”, Martin says softly, but he’s still grinning, “not as cute as your shriek from just now-“

“I did not shriek”, Jon insists, face almost as red as Martin’s.

“You didn’t”

Jon knows, he’s made a mistake almost as soon as he’s opened his mouth to answer “No, I, in fact, did not” but before he gets out the second word, Martin’s hands shift, and he digs his fingers into Jon’s belly and side, gently as not to hurt him, but firmly enough to actually make Jon squeal as he tries to shove Martin’s hands away, his own laughter echoing in the silent, rainy afternoon. Because Jonathan Sims, former Archivist, avatar of the beholding and almost world ender is, to Martin’s immense delight once he’d found out by accident, _ticklish_.

“ _I hate you, I hate you_ ”, he barely gets out between laughter, chest jerkily rising and falling as he tries to squirm out of Martin’s hold but the remains of the chair rise up around them.

“You’re right”, Martin finally says when he stops with the torture he calls ‘ticking’ and only keeps his arms loosely draped around Jon to not have him fall off his legs while he catches his breath, “compared to that, you really didn’t shriek earlier”

Jon stills and looks him dead in the eye as he says; “I hope, you can’t sit for a week”

“Worth it”

Martin grins so brightly down at him, Jon is half-surprised when the sky doesn’t immediately clear up above.

“You’re lucky, you’re my favourite person on earth”, Jon grumbles when he gets up, only sways lightly and extends his hand towards his boyfriend, who takes it, but has climbed to his feet before Jon has even started pulling him up.

“I know”, Martin kisses the top of Jon’s head before he stoops to pick up the blankets.

Jon is still quietly grumbling, when he follows his boyfriend back inside, his feet dragging against the wooden floor as he fights off a yawn. Nowadays, he doesn’t get sleepy but rather so tired all at once that he almost falls asleep where he stands once it starts.

The stairs look so immensely high from the bottom and right now, the welcome mat behind the front door looks like a fine place to fall asleep if it doesn’t mean climbing up the stairs Martin has already overcome and left behind. He thinks about calling for his boyfriend for a second before he decides, that that too would be too great an effort if he could just sit down at the foot of the stairs and lean against the wall, maybe rest his head against the ugly wallpaper for a moment before-

“Jon?”, Martin’s voice asks from way closer than it should be and Jon forces his eyes open, “are you okay?”

Martin doesn’t even try and hide his anxiety as he kneels down in front of Jon who sits slumped against the wall behind him, “O god, I’m sorry if I hurt-“

“No”, Jon tries to properly articulate his words but can tell they come out slurred, “I’m fine, just tired”

“You want help with the stairs?”

Jon doesn’t. He wants to stay right here and sleep; even the thought of shambling upstairs makes his head even heavier.

“Please”

Jon stretches one arm up without raising his head or properly opening his eyes. His hand comes up to about the height of Martin’s knees.

“You would tell me, if I did something wrong, right?”, Martin asks softly, as he picks Jon up and carries him up the stairs, Jon’s head lolling back as they ascend and make for the bedroom.

“’course”, Jon mumbles as his boyfriend sets him down on the mattress and blindly reaches for Martin’s hand again, “but you didn’t, ‘m just-”

“Just tired”, Martin finishes softly, meeting Jon halfway and letting himself be pulled down next to him, half on top of the blankets he’d dropped onto the bed earlier, “of course”

Jon is fast asleep before Martin has even closed his mouth and Martin decides to stay right there, just for a moment. It’s not like there’s anywhere he’d rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed, that I decided to finally commit and add the rest of the chapters I've written - they will be extremely fluffy and soft. I'll keep uploading on Thursday evening and I hope, you'll enjoy the addition.
> 
> Once again, thank you so, so much for reading and for your lovely comments.
> 
> Lots of love <3


	5. V.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing with dealing with ancient, disembodied fears and monsters is, that at the end of the day, you can’t really do anything against them or try to protect your loved ones- if they make it out of it in the first place. You also can’t very well say anything that stands even a chance of fixing things, and Jon has really never been great with dealing with his own emotions, never mind someone else’s.

Working for the Magnus institute had brought along several… unforeseen consequences. Well, unforeseen for everyone that wasn’t Jonah Magnus, but chances are, even he had not quite expected the end he’d ultimately met.

The nightmares had been one thing. Martin had been aware, that the archives would not be the most normal working place, but by the time he had sent in his… _adjusted_ CV, he had been desperate enough to not really care. A desperation that had evolved into constant guilt and uncertainty after he’d been accepted, and he hadn’t exactly been able to ask his qualified co-workers for help or whether they had gone into the job, expecting to come face to face with literal monsters and occasionally being followed home by one of them.

By the time things had gone really, irreparably awry, and they had started getting a rough idea of what exactly they had gotten themselves into by working there, the stalking, the constant threat of violence, death or worse, and later the loneliness whilst working for Peter couldn’t exactly be called _unexpected_ consequences but form time to time, Martin had had a moment of absolute clarity and he had not been able to keep himself from asking how, _just how exactly_ he’d ended up in the place he’d been.

Really, the only positive thing about working for the Archives, apart from the pay checks, had been Jon, and even now that the institute is gone and everything is over, and they’ve moved to this tiny Scottish cottage far, far away from London and it’s overcrowded misery, he remains the very best aspect of Martin’s life. But everything isn’t _really_ over, when they still look over their shoulder whenever they leave the house or when they wake up screaming in the middle of the night from their nightmares.

The only upside of Jon’s body shutting down after not having caused the apocalypse had been the fact, that, while he was still spending a good part of his time sleeping, that sleep had usually been dreamless. As he had slowly gotten better, that too had started to change, but right now it’s still more often Martin than him, who is shaken awake and held tight in the small hours of the morning, when his mind has decided to relive the worst parts of the last couple of years.

One thing, Martin had definitely not expected to follow him from his old job though, is the constant apprehension when it comes to any piece of paper. Jon has a similar problem but since he is still mostly bound to the house and only really leaves it to go for short strolls on good days, the only books, sheets of paper and other forms of storage media he comes into contact with are the ones Martin brings home from the shops or library, sometimes letters and flyers from their letterbox.

They have an inconspicuous pair of tongs hanging from a nail next to their front door for picking up letters and, on the table beneath it, next to the bowl with their keys, a pair of thick gardening gloves for the occasional package with the things the tiny supermarket down in the village doesn’t stock.

Tongs and gloves are only discarded once all boxes and letters have been opened and checked for the mark of Jürgen Leitner, familiar handwriting, strange textures, or names. Basira is still the only one who knows their exact address, and, kind of sad as it is, besides her, Daisy, Melanie and Georgie there had been almost no one (human) still alive during the last years who had been close enough to either Jon or Martin to have noticed them burning their bridges behind themselves and leaving neither notice nor forwarding addresses with anyone in London.

A letter from a solicitor's office in London is not something that should be in their mail, and it should most definitely not be addressed to Martin Blackwood.

“You could just burn it”, Jon suggests from his spot on their sofa when Martin drops the small, white envelope onto the coffee table.

“With my luck I accidentally committed fraud or arson or something”

“ _Accidentally_ ”

“Fine, without remembering it then”

Martin sighs as he picks the letter up again, turning it over in his hands but apart form the office’s address and logo and their own address, it’s completely blank. He carefully wedges the tip of his index fingers into the tiny space where the top flap isn’t fused to the paper beneath but doesn’t tear it open.

“Would you like me to do it?”, Jon asks with a small smile, already reaching out for the letter.

“I think I got a trauma from getting so many rejection letters”, Martin says, in a way that is clearly meant to be joking and in a tone of voice, that is clearly not as he takes off his gloves and passes first them, then the letter to Jon.

“And now every official letter you get is Pandora’s box?”

“Broadly”

“I see we’re already doing a great job with replacing ancient, evil fears with …more pedestrian ones”

“Just tell me if I end up in court”

Martin drops down next to his boyfriend, who stretches out his legs as soon as Martin has settled down and rests his feet against Martin’s thighs.

“Will do, will do”, Jon murmurs as he unfolds the pages and starts reading, brows furrowing behind his glasses.

“I changed my mind”, Martin starts after a couple of seconds, trying to wrench the pages away from his boyfriend when the lines on his forehead deepen but he can’t quite reach them with Jon’s legs between them, “I don’t want to know what it says”

“You really don’t”, Jon agrees when he finishes the page, “although…”

“How badly am I in trouble?”

“Well, _you’re not_ ”

Some of the tension leaves Martin’s shoulders but his frown stays in plays.

“Then what was the whole ‘you really don’t’ about?”

“…it’s about Elias”, Jon says softly, watching his boyfriend’s face as the words sink in.

“How”, Martin doesn’t ask as much as groan, closing his eyes and pressing his knuckles against their lids.

“Are you sure, you want to know? Because it’s nothing you necessarily have to do anything about”

“No, tell me please”, Martin sighs, face still mostly obscured by his hands and wrists, glasses pushed up into his hair.

“According to this, he appointed you as his universal heir some time ago and you get everything he owned”

“He- he what?”

This time, Jon meets him halfway when Martin reaches for the papers, but they don’t tell him more than what Jon has just said, apart from a number he has to call should he accept the inheritance and a list of everything Elias left behind. Which is a lot, even considering that Jonah Magnus had clung onto life for more than two hundred years.

“Do you remember the last time everyone went out for drinks after work, and Sasha and Tim started discussing, how much money Elias would need to have for it to be worth to try and get in with him?”

“Yes, and I think I’m the only one whose memory covers the whole night; I learned far too much about all of you on that evening”, Jon’s cheeks flush as he drops the gloves onto the tabletop, “looking back I can’t believe how no one wound up in hospital with-”

“Anyway”, Martin cuts him off, “according to this, both of them could have gone for it and still ended up with about ten times what they’d wanted- have you ever heard that thing, where the official ten wealthiest people in the world don’t come even close to the actual ten richest people, you have never heard of?”

“Well, I guess the tailored suits and ten k wristwatches were a little bit of a giveaway”, Jon points out, nudging Martin’s knee after moment adding, “although it seems I’m the real winner here”

“Yes, and I’m sure the last couple of years were all just part of your big scheme of getting yourself someone to keep you”

“Obviously”

Jon grins so shamelessly brightly up at him, that Martin can’t help himself but laugh. His expression only darkens, when he looks back at the letter in his hand and he rereads the short text.

“I still don’t get why- wait a minute”, Martin cuts himself short, his whole body suddenly still next to Jon’s whose face too drops when he sits up and moves closer to him, “ _that_ _fucking_ \- o my god”

“Martin-“

“He didn’t leave _me_ anything”, Martin grits out, balling a fist around the pages, “he wanted to- to do to me what he did to Elias, the original Elias I mean and this was just to ensure he’d keep all his stuff”

“But why should he choose you when- _oh_ ”

Jon’s teeth sink into his bottom lip as if that could take either his question or realization back.

“Because”, Martin goes on, voice trembling, as he gets to his feet, “because he had to have an emergency option if anything went wrong - and he knew, I was the only one in the archives he could be sure wouldn’t be missed, never mind had no one who would pay close enough attention to, to notice any chances or care if they did”

Both of his hands are balled to fists, shaking as Martin starts pacing back and forth in front of the couch. He’s still holding the crumpled letter in one fist and his movements are sharp and jerky as Jon watches him silently.

“ _And he was right_ ”, Martin goes on in a choked voice, squeezing his eyes shut when he comes to a hold in front of Jon.

His whole body shakes as he desperately tries not to burst into tears; he’s so tired of having other people- of having _Jonah Magnus_ walk all over him and all he can do is fret and have a cry about it, waiting for someone else to fix things while he looks on and _makes tea_. He wants to scream or punch something when he feels the first tears run down his cheeks- no, he _wants to_ want to scream and punch something. More than that, and the realization makes Martin almost as sick as the thought of Jonah Magnus taking his body, he wants Jon to hold him and tell him he was wrong, that he isn’t-

“Melanie had Georgie, Basira still had Daisy and her colleagues and he needed you for-“, Martin’s voice breaks when he does look at Jon who has pushed himself into a more upright position but still not said a word, merely watching him with a tight expression.

Martin’s face is hot, from both the tears and the shame that is unfurling in his belly and now slowly creeping up to his neck and cheeks, shining pink through his skin on its way. He brings up his hands to cover his face but he’s still holding the damned papers and a loud sob tears its way through his lips when he stills, hands halfway up to his face.

He doesn’t notice his boyfriend getting to his feet and stepping up to him, not until Jon wraps his arms around Martin. His body goes taut for a moment, but Jon only hugs him tighter – as if he’s trying to squeeze all the pain and misery out of Martin’s body.

If Jon were taller, he’d rest his chin against the top of Martin’s head, but standing almost a foot shorter than his boyfriend, Jon settles for getting onto his tiptoes and turning his head, so Martin can bury his face in his hair, tears now freely streaming down his cheeks. Martin only has to slouch a little, sobbing into Jon’s loose grey-black strands as he presses close and Jon rubs his back.

“No- _no one_ would have even noticed – except maybe Peter and-“

Martin’s voice breaks again. This isn’t news. He knows better than anyone else how successful he’d been in isolating himself since the failed Unknowing-ritual, and even how lonely he’d been before that, with his mother and Jon gone-

How lonely he’d been all his life. How alone he’d been as the weird quiet child in the baggy clothes no had one wanted to play with and who always ended up on his own, no matter what he tried. How utterly alone and godforsaken he’d felt when his mother just didn’t care, even though he’d told himself that it was only because of her sickness. Even when he had gotten the job at the archives, he had never really been part of the team, had struggled too much to try and keep up and failed so often and at the end of the day he’d returned to his tiny flat and been so numb and exhausted, it had hurt almost more than the phone-calls his mother either didn’t take or hung up on when she heard his voice. She had even left a note before she had passed away, instructing the nursing home not to let him attend her funeral.

He had liked Sasha and Tim but he had never quite dared to accept the offer when they’d asked him to go out with them, half because he’d been afraid, he’d let anything about his lie slip, half because he’d been scared that it would be just like the jokes, the kids back at school had played on him – which was pathetic but at that point, Martin had just accepted, that no one would ever really like him, would ever really want him there. After all, if even his own mother couldn’t stand the sight of him, how could anyone else? The fact, that, thanks to Elias, he knows that last part to be true doesn’t help.

Working for Jon had not helped either. Love at first sight was well and good but falling for someone who disliked you so openly, everyone around the archives had noticed, while you liked them so much, it was just as obvious doesn’t exactly help with feeling all alone.

It had gotten better when Martin had had to move into the archives and Jon had stopped looking at him like he was an absolute, time-wasting mess. When they had sometimes talked when Jon had either been in too early in the mornings or stayed too long after hours and from time to time had had to spend the night as well and Martin allowed himself the fantasy, that Jon actually cared. Looking back, all the things that had come afterwards seem impossible, most of all the fact that Martin of all people had made it through, because honestly? He had stopped caring at some point.

He’d still been scared sure, all the time; for himself, for the others for the whole world, scared and angry but by the time Jon had returned after the whole Jürgen Leitner thing, Martin had reached a point, where he’d almost accepted, that this was just what life would be now; horror after horror, monsters, the end of the world, secrets and nothing anyone, he least of all, could do about it. At least Jon had been back and he’d talked to Martin, he’d been as close to happy as Martin had ever seen him, when they’d had their little chats and Martin had even sometimes entertained the thought of telling Jon about his feelings, but of course he never had.

And then the unknowing had happened and Tim had died. Daisy had been gone, Basira and Melanie had been so desperate and angry all the time and even putting Elias into a cell had been meaningless, when Jon had lain in a coma for months and Martin had been back to being all alone. Peter could have not gotten a better opportunity.

Peter _had been right_ , when he’d told Martin that he’d be perfect for the lonely; he had not even needed to really change his day to day life. Jon had not been much better off, but at least he had kept working alongside Basira and Melanie, even Daisy after he’d gotten her out of the buried’s grip.

At some point the loneliness had become little more than a dull ache and everything had boon cold but softer. It had only flared up when Jon had come back and tried not only to talk to Martin but had offered to run away together and-

“No one would have cared”, Martin whispers now, face hot and tears burning in his eyes as Jon holds him close.

“I would have known”, Jon says softly, even though they both know it wouldn’t have made a difference, “I would have cared”

Even, if someone had believed Jon or the others, what would there have been left to do? Martin is fairly sure, that having your eyes cut out and replaced by a megalomaniacal, two-hundred-year-old monster, shambling about in a stolen body is not something you got better from.

The thing with dealing with ancient, disembodied fears and monsters is, that at the end of the day, you can’t really do anything against them or try to protect your loved ones- if they make it out of it in the first place. You also can’t very well say anything that stands even a chance of fixing things, and Jon has really never been great with dealing with his own emotions, never mind someone else’s – but Martin needs him right now. Martin is hurting, crying so hard, his whole body shakes and he can barely breathe between his sobs and Jon doesn’t know what to do, except hold him close.

He could lie to Martin, tell him, that he’s wrong, and that he’d never been as alone as he’d felt but they had promised each other not to lie and even if Jon tried it, it would be useless; nearly everything Martin had said was true and that really is the worst part.

“I can’t- I can’t believe he can just-“, Martin’s voice pitches higher towards the end of his sentence, “ _it’s not fair_ that he get’s to get to me even-“

“You’re right”

Jon’s hold around him doesn’t falter for even a second, and Martin clings back just as tightly.

“It’s not fair; nothing of this has been fair and no one should have been caught in it”, he adds, lifting one hand to cup Martin’s face and gently tilt it back until he can see his eyes, red and puffy and still brimming with tears, “but you managed to end it. I mean, look at it – in the end _you_ were the one to get Jonah and to take everything from him”, he presses his forehead against Martin’s, who shows no sign of wanting to reply any time soon, “and the best thing is, that you _didn’t_ _even_ _try for that_ ; you saved the whole world and me, and you completely wrecked everything Jonah had worked centuries on achieving within one afternoon - just because you’re the most amazing person I ever met”

“You-you know that’s not-“

“Right, I didn’t even tell you the best part”, Jon cuts him off, fingers tight against Martin’s face, “I’m sure in that moment, Jonah knew exactly what was happening and his last thought probably was, that _you_ ruined his life’s work without even actually meaning to – and I bet that was the worst part for him”

“Well, if-if your plan can be derailed by-by me doing something stupid-“

“It doesn’t matter who you are because you can’t ever get the better of Martin Blackwood”, Jon smiles up at Martin, who’s shaking his head slowly until Jon cups his face with both hands and forces his boyfriend to look at him, “don’t even try to make me underestimate you again, I learned my lesson long ago”

Jon bites back a sigh when Martin squeezes his eyes shut instead and moves his head as far from side to side as he can with Jon still cradling his face in his palms. He only lets go of Martin for as long as it takes him to guide his boyfriend back to the sofa and make him lay down. As soon as Jon’s on his side next to him, he pulls Martin back into his arms, kisses his hair when Martin curls into him and simply holds him until the tears die down.

By the time Martin is merely sniffling and can breathe a little more easily, the sun has started setting and the light of the sunrise comes in orange and warm from the windows.

“I’m”, Martin whispers into his boyfriend’s chest, against the wet patch his tears had left in Jon’s- well, Martin’s jumper but it smells of Jon and Jon has pretty much claimed ownership over all of Martin’s shirts at this point anyway, “I’m sorry”

“Shush”, Jon says softly, lifting one hand to brush a handful of curls that have taken to stick to Martin’s forehead back, and presses his lips against his temple.

“It just”, Martin sighs into the tiny space between them, “it just brought up- brought up a lot, okay?”

“I thought so”

Jon’s voice is so gentle, and he has started rubbing Martin’s back again.

“You don’t have to, of course, but you know, you can always talk to-“

“I do”, Martin says softly as he places his hand on Jon’s side, slowly smoothing the tips of his fingers against the soft wool, “but I don’t really want to go through all of it again right now. It’s just”, he stills against his boyfriend for a second, then makes a sound that’s almost a laugh, “just loneliness, you know?”

“I know”, Jon affirms quietly, “but you’re not-“, he barely keeps himself from saying ‘lonely’ and instead finishes with, “not alone anymore, right?”

“No”, Martin finally lifts his head from his boyfriend’s chest and blinks down at him, face still red and cheeks wet in the dying sunlight, but a hesitant smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, “not lonely anymore either”

And Jon smiles back, reaching up with one hand to wipe the last remainders of tears away from Martin’s cheeks.

“I love you”, is all Martin gets out before Jon is kissing him, threading his fingers through Martin’s light brown curls and still holding so tightly onto him, Martin isn’t sure he could get away even if he wanted to.

“I love you too”, Jon whispers, pressing his lips against Martin’s forehead and cheeks before he loosens his grip enough for his boyfriend to shift and snuggle back into his chest, “and I’ll never let the lonely get you again, okay?”

“So, what do you say”, Martin eventually says in a soft voice, opening his hand around the rumpled letter, and making himself re-read the words while Jon runs his hands up and down his back, “tomorrow I call that lawyer and we start looking up all the non-profit-organisations Jonah would have considered a personal affront?”

“That’s the spirit”

Jon kisses him one last time before Martin lays his head back against his shoulder and pushes as close to his boyfriend as he can and Jon wraps both arms around Martin’s back. Martin’s eyes are still red and he’s still quietly sniffling, but at least, he’s finally smiling again when he buries his face in the crook of Jon’s neck and Jon hooks his chin over his head, never letting go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you so very much for reading and your amazing comments! 
> 
> I'm afraid, there is going to still at least one more chapter after next week's 6th, if that's alright with you (I'll probably just up the chapter count accordingly. Since no chapter is going to end on a cliff hanger, this shouldn't be a problem, I think)
> 
> (By the way, how would you feel about giving Basira and Daisy a happy end as well? Would that be alright? We're already pouring layer after layer of sugar coating over canon events, so why not make everyone happy?)
> 
> Oh, and you can look forward for one of my favorite avatars swinging by next week's chapter, which is going to be a lot less mean on Martin, I am sorry about that in today's chapter.
> 
> Lots of love <3


	6. VI.

There is a yellow door.

Jon is fairly certain, that their new home did not have a yellow door when they had first viewed it, nor when they had started moving the apparently endless number of boxes through its, then, single front door and had kept running into each other whilst doing so, boxes piled high in their arms. The fact that the second door is situated between the very edge of the front of the house and the window that looks out from their, still disassembled, guestroom kind of gives it away as well. Maybe Helen had been tired or distracted, or whatever – it had been hard to say with her when Jon had still been able to just know things.

“Martin, dear”, he now calls from outside the tiny cottage that is overlooking the grey-blue waves and empty beach, never taking his eyes off the newest addition to their home, “could you come outside for a second?”

There are no passers-by anywhere near the beach on a rainy Thursday afternoon, but Martin’s face is still pink when he leaves the mess of unorganized boxes that is currently their living room and joins Jon outside.

“Do you really have to do that?”, he asks once he’s reached Jon, who only raises an eyebrow, arms still crossed in front of his chest as he leans back against the single pine in front of their house.

When they had started unloading the furniture lorry in the morning, Jon’s hair had been tied back into a single plaid but at this point, most of it has come loose and frames his face in loose strands instead, swaying gently when the wind catches them.

“Would I do it, if I didn’t have to?”

Jon doesn’t even try to hide his smile and Martin has to bite his tongue in an attempt to no blurt out anything too cheesy.

“What did you want?”, he asks instead, voice still soft.

“Come here for a moment”, Jon says, placing his hands on either side of Martin’s shoulders and gently guiding him until he has his back to the house.

“If you just wanted to make out, you could have-“

“Sadly, not what this is about right now”, Jon cuts him off, slipping his hands up to cup Martin’s face and prevent him from turning around, “just have to double-check on something”

“Do I have to be worried?”, Martin sighs but lets Jon do as he pleases.

“I’m not sure yet”, Jon shows him a quick smile, then goes on, “how many doors does the house have?”

“Two. The front door and the French window in the back”

“Okay, keep that in mind and turn around”

“O, for fuck’s sake”, Martin sighs when he looks back at their house and his eyes land on the yellow door.

“My thoughts exactly”

“Should we do something about it?”, Martin asks, taking a step backwards until he’s next to Jon again, “Or just leave it alone?”

“The age-old question”, Jon says, and Martin elbows him in the side.

“Is she going to just leave if we ignore her?”, Martin asks without any real conviction.

“I don’t think so”

“Yeah, I know”, Martin sighs again, “just wanted to pretend to have choice for a moment”

“I’m afraid that moment’s over”, Jon takes a deep breath, then turns to Martin, “do you want to wait back here while I go and-“

“Don’t be stupid, Jon”

Martin links his fingers with Jon’s as they start back towards the house and the door that shouldn’t be there. Its surface is surprisingly cool when Jon raps his knuckles against it and they both take a step back, just in time as the door swings open.

“ _Archivist_ ”, Helen beams at him, but her expression changes the moment her eyes land on Martin.

“ _I came here while he was inside for a reason, you_ _know_ ”, she tells Jon.

“But since _he_ ”, Martin bites back, eyes narrowed, fingers tight around Jon’s who squeezes back, “is there as well, you can either fuck right off or say what you came to say”

“ _Touchy_ ”, Helen raises an eyebrow, “ _I really thought, marriage would make you less testy_ ”

“It did”

“ _I see_ ”

“So what will it be, Helen?”, Jon asks into the uncomfortable silence, “and I’m not the archivist anymore. In any way, shape or form”

“ _Are you so sure about that?_ ”

“Yes”, Jon deadpans while Martin rolls his eyes beside him, “What do you want, Helen?”

“ _I just wanted to congratulate you two_ ”, the grin is back in place and it stretches too far to both the left and right, “ _disrupting Jonah’s ritual, finding such a lovely home in this economy_ ”, she makes a show of turning and taking in the sight, “ _getting married_ ”

With every word, her hand gestures become more elaborate.

“Thank you”, Jon says, nodding his head, nodding again towards his and Martin’s linked fingers as if that were the reason, he does not accept her outstretched hand, “Is it worth trying to ask why you didn’t want both of us there, seeing as we did all of those things together”

“ _The latter two things_ ”, Helen corrects, “ _if that were all that had happened since our last chat, I wouldn’t have bothered to try and get you alone_ ”

“ _Get me_ ”

“ _Poor choice of words_ ”

She winks. Jon can almost hear Martin rolling his eyes beside him.

“ _When have I ever done anything to cause you harm, archivist?_ ”

“Was there anything else you wanted to say?”, Martin asks before his husband can answer, “we’re actually kind of busy at the moment – and no, we don’t want to resume this chat at some point”

“ _Is he always like this?_ ”

“No”, Jon says, just as Martin says “yes”.

“Why didn’t you want Martin to be there while we talked?”

“ _Why doesn’t the mouse come close while the human in the room has a flyswatter in their hand? Your Martin-Dear has made quite a name for himself; few people expected anyone to take down Jonah Magnus, never mind-_ ”, she stops to cast a look at Martin, whose face shows equal parts annoyance and apprehension.

“If you’re that scared of him, you might want to try to be a little nicer”

“ _What fun would life be without a little risk?_ ”

“Is”, Jon starts, fighting the urge to heave a sigh or raise his voice, “is anyone looking for us?”

“ _Not right now; no one wants to draw your-_ “, Helen cuts herself off, turning to Martin directly, “your _attention enough to risk it_ ”

“Except you”, Martin holds her gaze.

“ _I wouldn’t know anything I did to antagonise you – and, as I said, I just wanted to congratulate my favourite little couple_ ”

“And when our little chat is over”, Jon goes on, “will you tell the other avatars where and how to get to us?”

“ _Why should I? I don’t work with those people, never mind for them_ ”

“No, you just wanted to say hi and congratulate us”

Martin tries not to look straight into the tunnels that open up behind Helen as he listens to Jon. The floor seems to round a corner almost right behind the door, but then doesn’t, heads the other way, up and down and Martin’s vision starts swimming the longer he looks, so he trains his eyes to the window beside the door instead.

“ _Exactly_ ”

“If, say anyone did decide to try and go after us”, Jon says slowly, “would your first reaction be to tell us? As, say, a late wedding present?”

“ _You don’t ask for presents_ ”, Helen tsks, but her eyes lit up, literally, “ _although it would be a lovely thing, wouldn’t it? A gesture wrapped in a bow without the bow_ ”

“You could put one on when the time comes”, Martin suggests, frowning once the words have left his mouth, and Jon casts a worried side-glance towards him.

“ _Marvellous idea_ ”, Helen claps her hands, “ _you don’t go after me, no one goes after you and bows all around. Lovely_ ”

“Then we’ll see you then”, Jon agrees, and Martin nods beside him.

“ _At the very latest_ ”, with a last wave, Helen turns on her heel and pulls the door almost shut behind her, “ _do enjoy your honeymoon_ ”

Then she’s gone.

“Are you okay?”, Martin asks as soon as the door is gone.

“Me? I’m not the one who got told, he’s too scary for the monsters to mess with”

“That’s not what she said”

“It _is_ ”

“If I tell you that it isn’t, will we be locked in that circle until one of us dies of dehydration?”

“If it takes you that long to accept it”, Jon cocks his head to the side and blinks up at his husband, the little crease that appears between Martin’s brows when he’s annoyed is still there, “face it, Martin; you are the new big bad, the fiercest-“

“Shut up”

But Martin’s grinning now, eyes still trained to the floor.

“I’ll never convince you, how, and yes, I’m aware of the fact that you hate that word, but how brave you were, will I?”

“I hate it when you call me that because I wasn’t- I was desperate and scarred out of my mind”, Martin’s voice grows fainter, the smile slipping of his lips like raindrops from a leaf, “when I thought, I’d killed you I would have done anything to get you back”

“You still did it”, Jon shrugs, “you also managed to play Peter for months”

“Still ended up in the Lonely and would still be there if it weren’t for you”

“Yes, and I unwittingly finished Jonah’s great stupid plan by following you, so what does that make me?”

“Stupid”, Martin replies without missing a beat, he sighs and brings their joined hands up to his face to kiss the back of Jon’s scarred hand, “as stupid as me, I guess. The world’s lucky we tend to cancel each other’s idiocy out in the end”

“Now that should have been our vows; stupid till death do us part”

“I liked the actual ones just fine”, Martin says softly and Jon grins, stretches onto his toes and kisses his husband’s lips instead of his hand.

“Me too”

\---

“Hey, Martin?”, Jon asks later that evening as they settle down for the night on the mattress that one day will be part of the bed they couldn’t face assembling tonight, and that now simply lays in largest free area of their bedroom that is not currently cluttered with boxes and crates.

“Yes?”

Martin is still fiddling with the last button of his pyjama jacket when he turns to his husband, crosses his legs underneath himself and stretches his arms up above his head. His back pops audibly in the still night air and both of them wince.

“Come here”, Jon says softly, although it is really him who scoots closer to his husband until Martin is basically sitting between Jon’s legs and Jon can place his hands on his back.

“Jon, you really don’t have to-“

“Shush”, Jon kisses the back of his neck, just above his collar as he gently pushes against the small of Martin’s back, “sit up straight, my love”

“They only thing straight in his house then”, Martin mutters when Jon’s fingers carefully press down, moving slowly apart as they feel for the especially tense areas and Jon snorts.

Martin yelps quietly when his husband’s fingers come across a kink near the base of his neck and dig into it. Jon ducks his head and brushes a quick kiss against where his fingers had just pressed down before he continues.

“What did you want to say earlier?”, Martin eventually asks, once Jon has slipped his arms around his waist instead and has pulled Martin backwards against his chest, “and thanks”, he adds, turning his head to kiss Jon’s jaw.

Jon rests his chin against the top of Martin’s head, just because he can in this position without having to stretch up and because it’s nice to feel Martin’s soft curls press against his neck and chin as he holds him close.

“I just wanted to ask you something”

“Go ahead then?”, Martin prompts softly when Jon doesn’t continue for several minutes.

“Just…”, Jon shakes his head and starts over again; “You really don’t think, you’re a hero, do you?”

“No”, Martin says slowly, drawing out the o, “I’m not _stupid_ ”

“It’s the truth though”

“Jon…”

Jon has his legs wrapped around Martin’s middle before Martin can even think about pulling away and getting up and Martin catches himself grinning for a second despite himself.

“I didn’t _do_ anything”, he goes on as he places his own hands over Jon’s, “I never really do anything, I just get in the way of people”, he shrugs, trying not to hit Jon with his shoulder, “and it’s fine, really, I’ve always known, I’m not really the type to- well, I’m really not cut out to be a _hero_ ”

“Just because you actually pause to think before you barge headfirst into danger, does not mean, you’re any less-“

“Jon”, Martin interrupts, shaking his head, “you don’t have to try and-“

“But-“

“No”, Martin says firmly, “I always stayed behind while everyone else was off being brave, I distracted Elias way back when while you, Tim, Daisy and Basira went off to blow off the unknowing. I stopped you from reading out his statement and the aftermath utterly wrecked you, but I never, ever put myself in danger and I never had to suffer any consequences so don’t go on and try to and tell me I did something heroic when I definitely did not, okay?”

“That’s not what happened, Martin”

Jon hugs him tighter, his husband’s chest rising and falling a little harder than normally in his arms.

“I was there, Jon”, Martin reminds him in a tight voice, “I saw what happened to Basira, Melanie, Daisy, Tim, Sasha and you; I was with you when- and while you got better, but I was always lucky while all of you-”

“I did not have Jonah break me down while I distracted him all on my own”, Jon says too fast to even attempt to soften the blow, “I did not have to worry about almost killing you whilst saving the world-“

“You keep saying that but-“

“I keep saying that, because it doesn’t stop being the truth, no matter what you’re telling yourself, Martin”, Jon says firmly, “this world would have been lost the moment I’d have finished reading Jonah’s statement, and you are the only reason I did not”

“Still, pouring out a little bit of paint isn’t exactly heroic”

“And reading out from a piece of paper should by no means cause the apocalypse, but if I learned anything during the last years, it’s that normal rules don’t really apply as soon as it comes to all this supernatural shit”, Jon insists almost desperately because Martin can be stubborn beyond belief, “never mind that you were willing to work with the lonely to try and keep everyone safe- Martin, we went through this before; you don’t have to tear yourself in half in order to do good, you know that”

Martin doesn’t reply, just presses his lips together as he stares straight ahead.

“You will never believe me, will you?”, Jon eventually asks softly, no challenge in his voice, “not really”

“I didn’t know, you knew about my talk with Jonah”, Martin says after a couple of minutes and Jon sighs quietly into his curls.

“I didn’t mean to”, he kisses the back of Martin’s neck before he goes on, “it’s just that the more I thought about someone, the more I knew, and, well I thought a lot about you ever since you came back”

“What do you mean? I was always there once Jane Prentiss- oh”, Martin stops, ducking his head on instinct as the thought sinks in, “that was-“

“-when got over myself, yes”

“I didn’t know”, Martin says again, voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s not like I really talked to anyone after you found Gertrude’s body, is it?”

“Not really”, Martin agrees softly, “Jon, can you let go a moment so I can actually see you while we talk?”

“Yes, sorry, wait a second”

Jon does let go and Martin scoots backwards until he too can rest his back against the wall behind him. He slumps a little until he can rest his head against Jon’s shoulder, who laughs before he lays his own head against Martin’s. Their hands link between them almost without them realizing and the cool silver of Martin’s wedding band presses against Jon’s skin.

“Jonah shouldn’t have shown that to you”, Jon says lamely, squeezing Martin’s hand tighter in his.

“It’s hardly the worst thing, he ever did to anyone”, Martin shrugs, trying his best not to let the memory of himself completely loosing it in front of Elias- Jonah resurface, trying not to remember what he’d shown him.

“Still a huge dick move”, Jon mimics his husband’s tone of voice, making sure to knock his shoulder against Martin’s when he adds the shrug and Martin can’t help himself but laugh, “which is bad enough, isn’t it?”

“I guess so”, Martin agrees in the softest tone of voice.

“And I”, Jon adds, forcing himself not to avert his face but turn his head to face Martin, “I need you to know, that _I_ do really, truly love you- I know, that you don’t really believe that either, but it’s still true”

“I thought it stopped when-“

“I’ve known that ever since started knowing things”, Jon lays his hand against Martin’s cheek, when he squeezes shut his eyes, “I’m sorry Martin, I never wanted to say anything about it, but I feel like you should know”

“I think, it’s good you told me”

“I’m also sorry, that I knew that in the first place – I really had no right-“

“Do you”, Martin cuts him off, squaring his shoulders, “do you believe me, when I say that I love you? Now, that you can’t just know anymore”

“I”, Jon pauses, “I do but I’m constantly worried, you might have changed your mind”

“I haven’t”

“That’s good to know”

Jon smiles up at him.

“I could promise you to tell you, as soon as I’ve changed my mind, you know”, Martin suggests after a couple of minutes, more to himself than the room at large.

“I’ll do the same then”, Jon agrees

He bites his lip as not to blurt out, “ _although it’ll never come to that_ ”, just as Martin has the same thought and too keeps silent, only turning his head to bury his face in Jon’s chest, who wraps both arms around him, and starts stroking his soft curls with his good hand.

They sit in silence for some time, Jon twirling Martin’s hair around his fingers as he holds him close and Martin trying to keep his eyes open while Jon’s heartbeat does its utmost best to lull him to sleep. Even after almost one year of this, Jon’s heart needs some time to slow down and beat normally again when he’s this close to his husband and, while Martin would never tell Jon about it, it makes him fall just a tiny bit more in love.

The wall behind them is cool and neither of them had thought to put a pillow or blanket between their backs and the blank wallpaper. At some point, they will have to move, especially since Jon is still, in Martin’s opinion way too thin, and he’s always cold anyway but for now, just for a moment, he holds as still as he can and simply breathes in the smell of oversweet tea, honey and mint that is as much part of Jon as his green eyes and his unruly black and grey hair that apparently can’t stand being tied up because it has already escaped its knot and fallen into Jon’s face again.

Martin can feel the very tips of it brush against his forehead and, when Jon bends forward to kiss the bridge of his nose, his cheeks and suddenly it’s very hard not to tell Jon, how much he loves him again. He had known that he’d been alone, well, _lonely_ , for the better part of his life no matter what he’d done even before they’d found out about Jonah’s will but the fact that he would no longer, maybe never, be on his own again is only slowly sinking in and it still makes Martin’s knees go weak and his own heart beat faster.

“Martin”, Jon says eventually, and Martin can hear the smile in his voice.

“Hm?”

“You never said, you couldn’t be _my_ hero”

From one moment to the other, Jon’s arms have tightened around him again and he’s pressing his face into Martin’s hair. Even if Martin wanted to, he could not get away without bodily unwinding his husband’s limbs around himself, so he stays put, although he does make a face.

“Poor choice really”, he says instead, “but”, he adds, when Jon makes a sound that sounds a little like a small, furry creature being kicked by a steel toed boot, “I guess as long as there are people like Mr and Mrs Foster around, I’ll do”

The Fosters had been the closest thing they had had to neighbours at Daisy’s safe house. They had talked to Martin from time to time before Jon had had recovered enough to go out himself, which had actually been kind of nice, after months of isolation. They had not been impressed when the ‘spouse’ Martin had told them about with the most besotted expression had turned out to be a slight man whose age they could not guess between the long grey hair and the scars and marks on his body and face though. The too long black leggings that bunched around his ankles and worn-out jumper that was so big on him, that it both exposed one of his sharp shoulders and reached down his legs far enough to be more of a shapeless dress than pullover had not helped much. After that meeting the little chats they’d had with Martin had turned into frosty stares and no party had been overly sad when a big white moving lorry had turned into the street one morning and Jon and Martin had carried the few boxes they’d brought to Scotland into the van and added them to the boxes that contained the new furniture for their tiny seaside cottage before they had driven off for good.

“You’ll do just fine”, Jon agrees.

This is as far as Martin is going to go in this, and Jon’s willing to take what he gets. He does let go of Martin when he sits up and rubs a hand across his face. Martin, on his part, ignores the challenging look in Jon’s face and instead lays down properly and tugs at his husband’s hand until he follows and curls into him.

“One day”, Jon murmurs into the crook of Martin’s neck once he has switched off the lights and the only light that gives a little illumination to the room comes in through the curtainless windows opposite their bed, “one day I’ll make you see”

“Just go to sleep, Jon”, Martin presses his lips against Jon’s forehead before he pulls him into his arms, lays his chin against the top of his husband’s head and closes his eyes.

The only sound from outside is the lazy sound of the sea and before long, it has lulled both of them to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I think, this is a good place to end the main story but I'll probably add another bonus chapter or two in the near future.
> 
> I also hope, this made up for Martin's ... experiences during the last chapter.
> 
> Lots of love <3


	7. I. Bonus Chapter

Martin wakes up to the never-ending sound of waves crashing against the beach and seagulls crying out in the sky above it, like every morning.

Jon is still fast asleep, snuggled into Martin’s chest, from time to time quietly murmuring into his husband’s shirt and pushing closer, also like every morning. Martin can never quite make out what his husband is saying in his sleep and he doesn’t ask if Jon can remember his dreams in the morning. Not after that one time he’d offhandedly mentioned Jon’s sleep-talking and asked, whether it was an aftereffect of being in the service of the beholding and Jon had gone bright red and stuttered something about not having done it since he’d been a child.

His chest is slowly rising and falling as Martin watches - once he has carefully raked Jon’s hair out of his face and can actually see something that isn’t grey and black curls.

These days, he’s usually awake before Jon, which in of itself is quite funny, considering that, back in London, Jon was always the first one to arrive at the institute and bury himself in work. Even while Martin had literally lived in the archives, he had seldom been at his desk before Jon in the morning – but few things had stayed the same since then.

At first Martin had actually been surprised, how well Jon had been coping without working twelve hours a day and instead spending whole days just doing nothing except reading, going for a walk or swim and just being with Martin, even after he’d recovered from the failed ritual. Their new home is slightly larger than Daisy’s safe house but still, the work that has to be done around it is nothing compared to the daylong stretches Jon had stayed awake at a time, running on nothing but caffeine, cigarettes and statements. And the work itself mostly consists of doing laundry or trying out new recipes that only entirely wreck their kitchen half the time, not coming face to face with the literal embodiments of ancient, cardinal fears.

Laying snuggled up to his husband in their tiny bedroom is not exactly the worst way to start the day and most days, Martin simply stays right where he is and holds Jon close until he stirs, maybe even drifts back off himself from time to time. It’s not like either of them has a busy schedule these days; Jon helps out at the public library in the village every other afternoon and Martin’s evening classes are, as the name implies, in the evening.

It’s perfect really; there are no crazy bosses, actual monsters or apocalypses they have to worry about or try to prevent and, for perhaps the first time in their life really, they can do whatever they want. Even after they’d split Elias’ inheritance between them, Basira, Melanie and several fundraisers and charities, there had been more than enough left to ensure that they’d be fine basically for the rest of their life. One of the perks of omniscience had apparently been a sure hand for stock markets and investments all over the world and Martin delights in spending in on everything Jonah Magnus would have hated.

There is perhaps one thing, that could make things even better- and today _is_ Jonathan Sims’ birthday so… Not the exact morning, Martin wants to wake him up early, but he had promised Kate to come by early to get Jon’s surprise.

“Sh, birthday boy”, he whispers as he untangles himself from Jon, who should be considered a miracle of modern science these days with the additional appendages he somehow manages to grow in his sleep to cling to Martin, “go back to sleep”

Martin kisses the top of his husband’s head when Jon stirs, still half asleep and tugs the blankets back up to his chin once he’s fairly confident that Jon is out again. The note Martin slips beneath his husband’s glasses on the nightstand is entirely unnecessary, but he really doesn’t like the thought of Jon properly waking up while he’s gone and not knowing where or why Martin had gone.

One of the upsides of living in rural Scotland, apart from the gorgeous landscape that’s the exact opposite of central London, is the fact that, also unlike London, there is not really a rush-hour in the morning. Sure, a little more cars are underway on the streets than around noon but Martin still has no trouble getting to the little farm and back again within half an hour.

Once he’s back inside and has pushed the front door shut as quietly as he can, Martin carefully climbs up the stairs on socked feet, sets the cardboard box down on the floor and checks on Jon, who’s curled up around a Martin-sized empty space. Jon’s glasses still sit on the nightstand, but his eyes are open, and Martin’s note is in his hand when he squints up at his husband.

“Keeping in mind that you were the one to insist on celebrating my birthday, it’s quite inappropriate of you to not start the day with me”

Jon’s voice is always a bit horse in the morning and, as always, Martin has closed the distance between them almost without noticing until he sits down on the edge of the bed and Jon wriggles closer, still bundled up in the sheets, hair all over the place and the crease of the pillow edged into his cheek. He’s so beautiful Martin wants to stop blinking to not miss a second, to maybe pause the whole world to try and turn this moment into a poem before any detail can flee his mind.

Instead, he cups Jon’s face with one hand and kisses a straight line from the former archivist’s hairline, over his forehead, between his brows and along his nose to his lips. All of which has apparently taken too long for Jon, who wraps both arms around his husband’s neck and pulls him close when they finally properly kiss and keeps him right there when they stop.

“Good morning by the way”

Jon, as usual, is the first one to regain the ability to form coherent sentences when they pull apart by a hair and his eyes only grow brighter when Martin laughs into the tiny space between them.

“Good morning to you too”, he whispers back, pressing his forehead against Jon’s when it becomes clear, that he will remain in this position for some time, “and happy birthday”

“Thank you”

“In my defence”, Martin goes on, “I only left to get you your present, well your main present”

“You didn’t need to get me anything”

“Now that’s just not true”

Martin gently unhooks his husband’s arms around him and pulls back and out of Jon’s reach before Jon can tug him forward again.

“You are so cruel today”, Jon informs him when he notices and crosses his arms in front of his stomach instead.

He’s wearing one of Martin’s shirts as usual. This particular one is so old and worn out, it even hangs off Martin’s shoulders and arms when he wears it though. On Jon, whose hair is sticking out in every direction despite its length, it exposes half his upper arm and chest when it slides off his shoulder, which is to say: at all times.

“Then you won’t mind me ducking outside for a second”, Martin retorts, already half through the door.

“One”, Jon calls after him, arms still crossed but before he can say “two”, Martin is back inside, a box that’s a little larger than your average shoebox carefully held in front of him.

“Told you”, Martin says as he places the box on Jon’s lap, who instinctively uncrosses his arms and places his hands on either side of it to keep it from falling.

Something inside the box shifts and Jon’s forehead creases as he looks over to Martin, who has just sat down near the foot of the bed. He keeps his eyes on Jon’s face as he slowly lifts the lid and immediately drops it next to the bed onto the floor when two yellow-green eyes stare up at him.

“ _Martin_ ”, he whispers as he offers his hand to the tiny ball of black fur that has pushed itself into one corner of the box.

“We’re not calling her that”, Martin points out from where he’s leaned back against the footboard and still watching his husband as he carefully turns his hand when the kitten uncurls and accepts it, gently bumping its black nose against Jon’s fingers.

“Hello”, Jon whispers, ignoring his husband as he brushes the very tips of his fingers against the little head, which is still the largest part of the entire animal and strokes the soft fur between her ears. “May I pick you up?”

The kitten starts purring just when Martin snorts so quietly and fondly, it gets completely lost in the rustle of the card box sliding off the bed when Jon lifts its inhabitant out of it. His hands are trembling the tiniest bit, but, he thinks just a little choked up, perhaps that’s cancelled out by the tiny cat only purring louder as he holds her. She just about fits onto Jon’s palm but his other hand is already in place, holding her against his chest and running his thumb along her soft side.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen”, Jon coos as he lifts her the tiniest bit higher to kiss the top of her head.

“Well, thanks”

Jon’s head snaps up as if he’s forgotten his husband’s presence.

“You’re not a thing, Martin”, he points out softly, his eyes flitting between his husband and kitten.

“Neither is she”, Martin points out but he’s already carefully making his way to where Jon is sitting cross-legged in the middle of their bed, as usual taking up way more space than should be possible with how slight he remains despite the success Martin’s vigorous attempts of feeding the skinniness right out of him have already had.

“That is very true”, Jon says dreamily when Martin fits his arm around his waist and leans his head against Martin’s shoulder.

“You still don’t see the point of birthday presents?”, Martin asks as he too offers his hand to the kitten and squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to neither laugh nor jerk back his hand, when it starts nosing his knuckles and her whiskers brush against his fingers.

“Maybe”, Jon barely manages around his chuckle when the kitten licks the back of Martin’s hand with its astoundingly pink tongue and Martin makes a noise meander between awe and disgust, “she’s amazingly affectionate”

“I know”

“Of course – where did you get her?”

“You remember the sister of our landlady?”

“Kate over in… you know that tiny neighbouring village?”

Martin may never say it but these days few things reassure him as much as Jon not perfectly remembering even a single unimportant fact or information so he just nods while he gently scratches the kitten behind its left ear, which is met by a resounding purr and a tiny head nudging against his fingers when he stops for even a second.

“Yeah, she actually had a lot of trouble finding someone to take of this one”

“People still afraid of black cats?”

“Apparently – she also said that the few people who came by to look at the kittens were put out when she told them, that they shouldn’t really leave this one alone for more than an hour or two since she’s so clingy and starts crying when you ignore her for too long”

“And since neither of that’s going to be a problem with us…”, Jon starts softly.

“I thought she’d be perfect for you, us”, Martin finishes, just before his husbands lifts his head and kisses him again.

It doesn’t last too long since their hands still for a moment and the tiniest meow snaps them right back to the most important task at hand.

“Since you’re quite busy here”, Martin carefully untangles himself from Jon when he can hear his husband’s stomach growl over the purring kitten, “I’ll make us breakfast – and I’ll be the one to change the sheets if we get crumbs anywhere”, Martin clarifies just as his husbands points out, that breakfast in bed is much more trouble than it’s worth.

“Can I at least help you?”

“Definitely not”

Martin does take a moment to simply watch his husband snuggle their tiny black cat and, on a whim pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“Are you happy?”, he asks and takes the picture the very moment Jon looks up, smiling so brightly it looks almost painful.

“Take a guess, my love”

Jon doesn’t have the heart to glare at Martin so ends up looking even more besotted than before and Martin is no better when he does his best not to blush at the sight.

“I’d say yes”

“So would I”, Jon laughs, shaking his head the tiniest bit and Martin finally leaves the room and heads towards their kitchen, past the two shopping bags filled with food and toys for their kitten, “so would I”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very fluffy bonus chapter because Jonathan Sims just has to have a cat in his life. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Lots of love <3


	8. II. Bonus Chapter (Part 1)

One month after Jon’s birthday, Sappho (because neither Martin nor Jon have any reputation to keep up) has fully settled in. She has a favourite place in every room and will claim that place no matter who or what currently occupies that spot.

To Martin’s immense delight, she has also taken to perching on Jon’s shoulder and letting herself be carried around the house like that, surveying her surroundings and occasionally trying to groom Jon’s hair when he doesn’t tie it back, which Jon in turn pretends to take offence with. Sappho is also the perfect company for Martin’s classes, especially when she naps on his lap or in the hoods of his jumpers and forces him to actually stay seated and work through the difficult parts instead of pretending to suddenly have to do this or that around the house instead.

Honestly, everything is perfect. A thought, Jon tries his best not to have, because once you get used to something that amazing, the universe will try everything to take it away from you, it always does. So, he takes to distracting himself whenever that thought comes dangerously close to forming, never quite succeeding.

But of course, he returns one evening from the library and has just pushed his bike up next to the tiny shed and started towards the house when he notices that said house has two front doors right next to each other. The left door has a sparkly garland taped to its front and a hand full of balloons tied to its handle which lazily bob into the mild evening breeze.

Jon’s blood runs cold as he rounds the house and lets himself in via the French window instead. The sea churns quietly behind him and for once does nothing to calm him down while he unlocks the glass door with fingers that tremble so badly, he almost drops his keys before he steps directly into their living room where Martin is just finishing up with his history paper, Sappho non-stop rounding his feet and loudly demanding her dinner.

She has made it over to Jon and up his leg and side before Martin has shut off his laptop and turned around and she softly meows into Jon’s ear, butting her head against the side of his until he shakily lifts his hand and pets her side.

“Hey, why-“, Martin starts with a soft smile but it vanishes as soon as he sees Jon’s expression and hurries over to him, “what’s wrong?”

“Helen’s back”, Jon whispers, eyes wide and face ashen.

They have no plan for this yet, have not thought to come up with what to do, when something does decide to come after them- which is stupid, but they haven’t even had a full year of just being happy and okay yet and _it’s not fair_. Not that that ever matters.

“Okay”, Martin says as he carefully lifts Sappho off his husband’s shoulder and sets her down on the floor, although nothing is okay, “then we better talk to her, right?”

It takes a tremendous amount of will, but Martin’s voice does not tremble when he takes Jon’s hand and squeezes his fingers. They have barely made it to their entryway when Jon stops and forces Martin to pause as well.

“I think it’s going to be-”

Martin quietly thanks whatever higher power has saved him from having to finish that sentence when Jon throws his arms around him and hugs him so tightly, Martin’s breath catches.

“I’m scarred too”, he whispers instead, hugging Jon back just as tightly.

He can feel Jon tremble in his arms but when they pull apart and he takes Martin’s hand again, he has schooled his face into a neutral expression. Neither of them says a word when they step outside and close the door between them and their very confused kitten which has padded after them and starts meowing almost as soon as the door is shut before her.

This time, Martin is the one who knocks at the decorated door and it actually takes Helen a moment to open it. When she does, a bright pink party hat sits on her head; several yellow feathers are glued to its tip and the plastic glitters when the light over the actual front door touches it.

“ _My favourite archivist_ ”, she proclaims, grin as bright as her hat beneath the light, “ _I think, congratulations are once again in order_ ”

Jon wants to scream, or at least cut her off and tell her to just cut the bullshit and talk but he takes a shaky breath and, very quietly thanks her.

“Nice... bow”, Martin pipes beside him and Helen cocks her head.

“ _It’s not a_ bow”, she shakes her head further from one side to the other than should be possible, the feathers fluttering above her, “ _bows are for emergencies and presents_ ”

“And this…isn’t an emergency?”, Martin asks hopefully because he can’t help himself. Because things might be too good to be true but that doesn’t mean he’s willing to let them go without a fight.

“ _No, of course not; it’s your birthday present – well, your late birthday present, but you could say, it’s really early for next year_ ”, Helen points one too long finger at Jon, “ _your present has a bow though_ ”, she adds, just when Jon, feeling ten years older than a minute ago, whispers, “you shouldn’t have”

“ _But I did_ ”, Helen beams back before she turns around and returns into her tunnels.

“Are you okay?”, Martin asks quietly but before Jon can decide whether to answer truthfully or not, Helen is back, and she is not alone.

Daisy’s hair has grown a lot longer since the last time Jon had seen her, and the pastel pink bow tied around her head does nothing to make the situation make any more sense.

“H-hi”, Martin somehow manages to get out when Daisy passes Helen by and steps out onto the lawn.

She’s dressed in the same grey sweatpants and tank top she’d had on the last time Jon had seen her. Her arms are covered in pale scars that almost reach up her neck towards her face but then peter out into pale skin instead.

“Bye, Helen”, she says to the avatar of the distortion, who waves too big hands and pulls the door shut between them with a loud creak, which finally snaps Jon back to attention

“Helen”, he calls after her and she does stop and turn.

“ _Yes?_ ”, she asks sweetly.

“Thank you”

“ _You know, I got a soft spot for you, archivist_ ”, Helen shrugs, then finally closes the door.

“Hi”, Jon echoes his husband softly.

He’s dimly aware that one, the evening is not mild enough for a tank top and bare feet and two, Sappho is still screaming her head off behind the, once again, single door but his thought processes seem to have slowed down somewhat.

“Just to be clear”, Daisy says when neither Martin nor Jon look like they’re about to contribute anything substantial to the conversation, “I’m not your gift”

“I”, Jon says, pauses, mind suddenly blank, then laughs, finally letting go of Martin’s hand and raking both through his hair as he goes on, “I’m quite alright with that. You want to come inside?”

“Got nothing better to do, do I?”

“I wouldn’t know”, Jon smiles as he turns to Martin, “can you watch for Sappho?”

“She’s not supposed to go outside yet”, he tells Daisy when he slowly opens the door and Martin just about manages to catch the tiny black shape that’s already half outside the house and Daisy does something she didn’t know she could still do, and laughs when the black kitten looks from Martin, to Jon, to her with the most pitiful expression, “and she’s starving because we’re terrible and unjust excuses for human beings”

“Aren’t we all?”, she says quietly as she follows Martin and Jon closes the door behind them.

Neither Jon nor Martin ask, which part she’d meant.

-

Basira doesn’t pick up her phone, so Jon sends her the good news via email and text message once he’s gotten Daisy his thickest jumper, socks and a new pair of sweatpants. Counterintuitive as it is, she looks better than the last time he’d seen her; she’s not as deathly skinny anymore and the hollows around her eyes aren’t gone but they’re not as deep as they used to be either. Still, the jumper swallows her whole, which she doesn’t seem to mind as she carefully sits down on the armchair next to the sofa, pulls up her legs and wraps her arms around them. She has also not unwound the pink ribbon from around her head yet and Jon chooses to believe it’s because it keeps the hair out of her face.

Martin has escaped to their kitchen and is currently trying to stretch out the time it takes him to feed Sappho and make dinner as much as he can. Sadly, pasta buys you only so much time, but he’ll take what he can. He also didn’t close the kitchen door behind himself and keeps half an ear on the voices coming from the living room, not quite able to make out what they’re saying but he would be able to hear if something went wrong, if-

Martin shakes his head in an attempt to get rid of that thought. From what Jon had told him, he and Daisy had become something akin to friends after they’d returned form the coffin and anyway, Jon is completely human again, so there isn’t really anything for Daisy to-

He forbids himself to even finish the thought and sighs quietly when the timer on counter shrills and proclaims the end of Martin’s little escape. When he re-enters the living room, Jon is just finishing up a quick recollection of the time that has passed since their last day at the archives, and Daisy is slowly shaking her head.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”, Jon asks as he turns to Martin who is clutching the plates and cutlery just a little too tightly in his hands before he gets up, meets his husband halfway and takes both, “I would have done that”

Martin shrugs awkwardly before he returns to the kitchen to get the actual food. By the time he returns, Jon has set the coffee table and Daisy has pushed the armchair a little closer.

Dinner itself is a rather quiet affair for the most part. Jon and Daisy are too busy wolfing down their food while Martin merely pushes a handful of noodles around on his plate and tries not to stare at Daisy. Tries not to think of how many alternative uses for her fork she could probably come up with and how close she’s sitting to Jon.

“That was really, really good”, Daisy finally says as she places her empty plate back on the table.

She doesn’t exactly smile at Martin, but she isn’t glaring either and her voice is pleasant enough, so Martin offers her a weak smile as he says thanks. Most importantly, she is neither trying nor threatening to kill Jon, which is honestly more than can be said for the majority of their old contacts. Sappho too has finished her dinner at this point and is quietly winding her way around what has become her armchair over the last weeks, not quite daring to leap onto Daisy’s lap.

“It’s just pasta”, he adds when Daisy keeps looking at him, and he rubs his hand over the back of his neck.

“Still”, Daisy shrugs, “Helen never had anything but chocolate, avocados and super spicy food while I was with her, and grapes for some reason”

“I’m sorry, what?”, Martin asks when Jon doesn’t even blink.

“All toxic for dogs”, Jon explains quietly when Daisy doesn’t, “that’s the distortion’s humour for you”

“How long were you… in there?”

Martin makes a vague gesture, that ends up as a slightly wobbly spiral.

“I don’t really know”, Daisy pauses as she pulls the arms of her jumper over her wrists and hands, speaking more to her knees than the couple in front of her, “kind of hard to keep track once you’re…” she trails off, then shakes her head and goes on, “I know, I was… running wild for some time and at some point there was always an open, yellow door wherever I went and I went through? Don’t ask me why”, she barks out something that’s almost a laugh, “and after that I don’t know how long I spent tearing through her tunnels, it’s kind of hard to keep track of time in there but I must have reached some kind of breaking point at some point and when I woke up, I was… back to myself? And Helen was there”, she shrugs again, “she’s kind of good company to be honest. Nothing better than complete disorientation and crazy to get yourself back together. Makes freaking out about your loss of humanity or whatever kind of hard and I didn’t have to worry about hurting her or anything”

“No, not within her tunnels”, Jon agrees softly, but before he can go on, his phone starts ringing and Basira’s name pops up on the screen.

“Hi, Basira did you- wait, what?”, Jon’s brows furrow and he transfers his phone from his left to his right air, as if that might change anything, “yes, yes she was just here and- yes… I honestly don’t know but she’s probably your fastest way from- you’re in Cork? … yes, okay, I know-“

Martin watches his husband silently but even he can’t help himself but stifle a laugh when Jon tips back his head and casts his long-sufferingly at the ceiling, raising one hand to absentmindedly tug at a loose grey curl. He then points first at his phone, then at Daisy and raises his eyebrows while he continues to listen to Basira, but Daisy slowly shakes her head, burying deeper into her jumper.

“Look, I’m not taking any responsibility for that. It worked once, I don’t know if it’ll work again all I can say is, that it might safe you the drive… of course I offered her to stay as long as she wanted, that’s not the problem. You know what, just call when you’ve made up your mind”

Jon pulls the phone, display now dark and blank again, away from his ear with a tight expression and pinches the bridge of his nose as soon as he’s placed his phone back on the table.

“Helen apparently found her and-“, he is interrupted a second time when the doorbell rings.

“I wonder who that’s going to be”, Martin says drily as he gets up and goes to open the door.

“Are you okay with…?”, Jon asks quietly but Daisy has already gotten to her feet, so Jon simply trails after her.

Basira has barely passed the threshold, looking for all the world like she’d just walked through a milelong wind channel when Daisy is suddenly in front of her and engulfs her in the tightest hug Basira’s had since Daisy and Jon had climbed out of the coffin. After a brief pause in which Basira’s whole body goes taut, she brings up her arms and hugs her back just as tightly.

By the time she has buried her face in Daisy’s neck and her breathing has grown strained, Martin quietly pushes the door shut behind them before he returns to Jon, links their hands and pulls him back into their living room, where Sappho has just reclaimed her armchair and looks quite pleased with herself.

That is of course until Martin lets himself fall back against the sofa and Jon curls into him almost before he’s sat down, and she turns to watch them.

“Are you okay?”, Jon asks softly when Martin fits his arms around him and just holds him close for a couple of minutes.

“Course”, Martin tells his husband’s soft hair, “according to circumstances”

“Circumstances being you quietly fuming for as long as they’re going to be here?”

“We can’t just kick them out”, Martin states flatly, and to his credit, he does not sound as disappointed as he could.

“I honestly don’t think either of them is going to be that interested in us”, Jon points out.

He can finally, finally feel his body unwind and his jaw unclench.

“Thank you for going out with me earlier”

“To talk to Helen?”

Jon hums quietly as he turns his head and kisses Martin’s neck, just above the collar of his jumper.

“I just, I was so scared something was coming for us”, he whispers against Martin’s skin and Martin hugs him tighter.

It really is amazing how quickly they had gotten used to daily the horrors and trauma at the archives but once they had left London behind, that ability to just get through and trying not to think about what was happening, had vanished within a couple of weeks. It also makes Jon quietly wonder, how, not necessarily easier, but how much less desperate their situation at the institute might have been, if they had managed to catch just a single break and properly _talk_ between everything that had gone down after Jane Prentiss had attacked the archives.

How different everything might have gone down if only he had managed to bite the bullet and accept his feelings for Martin earlier instead of denying them until it had almost been too late and isolating himself from everyone even before he’d started becoming a monster. How he might still be able to talk to Georgie and Melanie and maybe even Tim. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and he tries to push it away.

“So was I”, Martin hugs him tighter, “although”, he adds after a moment, squinting down at his husband, “did you really think, I’d let you face that alone?”

“No”, Jon says truthfully, “not even for a second”

“…good”, Martin’s voice teeters towards the end of the word. He’d already half-planned his speech about how he’d never let Jon down like that, no matter what but now it’s really quite unnecessary, so he merely repeats, “good”, in a slightly calmer tone of voice.

“Do you think, we should just leave a note and go upstairs? Give them a bit of privacy?”, Jon asks after some time, his lips brushing against Martin’s skin as he speaks.

“I think it’s going to be less awkward, if we talk the most important stuff through tonight”

“You’re probably right”, Jon muses when Sappho jumps up onto the couch and climbs over his legs to weasel herself into their embrace, chirping quietly until he scratches the spot behind her ears, she can’t quite reach herself.

On the other side of the house, neither Daisy nor Basira have moved, except to pull onto each other’s shoulder or hip to clutch her closer. Daisy is wordlessly drowning in her partner’s achingly familiar scent and the feeling of finally, finally being touched like this, of finally having someone to touch like this again.

Basira’s thoughts are racing so fast, she gives up on trying to make sense of the situation, choses to be stupid and believe all of this is real and Daisy is back and… safe? Is human again and free? It’s ridiculous and obviously dangerous but- but it’s _Daisy_. _Her_ _Daisy_. Here and alive and, Basira decides in this moment, human and most importantly in Basira’s arms where she should always be. So Basira doesn’t ask, doesn’t say anything and, most importantly doesn’t let go for what feels like a tiny eternity.

If, _if_ this is just a fluke and whatever powers that are currently at play, decide to pull the rug out from under her and take this away again, they better do it quickly and get themselves to safety because Basira too has claws and teeth she can use to protect her loved ones, or at least to avenge them. Her loved _one_ , to tell the truth. The last three years had not been easy on her social life.

 _If_ this turns out to be fake, to be some kind of trap or anything, Basira honestly doesn’t care, no longer has the energy to care because this last year she’d spent trying to find Daisy, never quite sure, whether she was stretching out her search and deliberately slowing down whenever she found any hint, any clue and be it ever so faint, has been harder on her, than the previous two years as Elias’s Buchard’s hostage. Has been harder than fighting off monsters and the apocalypse with nothing but bits of paper and the monsters around and inside her.

From time to time she had asked herself, what would happen after she’d found Daisy. In her mind, there had been no doubt of what would happen _when_ she had finally caught up with the thing that used to be her- she would have kept her promise. Of that at least Basira is sure. She had owed Daisy that much.

That doesn’t mean that her plans of becoming a hunter afterwards, where anything more than a thinly veiled excuse to just follow Daisy as fast as she could, maybe taking one last monster with her as she’d gone. Not that that would clear her conscience and declare everything she’d done right; _just some nasty steps that had to be taken to keep the world safe_ , she thinks bitterly, _a tiny splash of red in the big picture of things. Or not so tiny. Does it really matter? (It does)._

“Basira”, Daisy eventually whispers into Basira’s shoulder, but she doesn’t loosen her grip yet, “can I- I’d really like to see your face”

Basira doesn’t quite trust her voice, so she slowly lets go of Daisy and pulls back far enough to face her, her arms still slung around Daisy’s hips.

She no longer feels like nothing but skin and bone, and her skin isn’t grey and clammy anymore. Her hair has grown longer than Basira has ever seen it and the light pink ribbon really doesn’t go with the thick dirty blond curls- Basira has to bite down on her lower lip to keep herself from either blurting out something too true or starting to cry.

She honestly doesn’t know at this point but then Daisy cocks her head to one side and reaches up one hand so painfully slowly, Basira has more than enough time to pull back before Daisy’s fingers make contact with her skin. She doesn’t and the tips of Daisy’s fingers are warm when she brushes them against Basira’s jowl and tugs the long, dark strands that have come loose while Basira had passed through Helen’s doors, behind her ear.

The hesitant smile that is creeping its way onto Daisy’s lips when she meets Basira’s gaze and holds it manages to knock down Basira’s walls in one swift move and she can feel her lips part despite herself.

“I _missed_ you”, Daisy sighs and Basira just can’t keep the sound, that’s half-laugh, half-sob at bay.

“I missed you too”

Her voice is strained as she follows Daisy’s lead; lays her hand against the side of her face and lets her forehead fall forward against Daisy’s.

Basira’s breathing is still too harsh and loud in the peaceful evening silence, but so is Daisy’s as they hold each other close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kittens, the distortion and reunions.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you've enjoyed it.


	9. II. Bonus Chapter (Part 2)

Martin K Blackwood is usually not the kind to get angry at things, like truly furious to a point where he’s yelling and slamming doors in other peoples’ faces. He is, not that Jon would ever tell it to him, more the kind to quietly fume and give snarky answers when spoken to, beneath the thinnest veil of politeness.

Watching him argue with other costumers at the shops when they’re being rude to the staff and not care in the slightest that the person he’s talking to is twice his age is glorious in its own way, getting a passive aggressive “Oh, I always thought you liked your tea that way” along with a cup of tepid, almost tarlike black tea after Jon had taken his husband’s current book without asking and lost Martin’s page whilst reading himself, less so.

Even that doesn’t happen too often nowadays, not now that there is no Jonah Magnus doing is utter best to get under Martin’s skin with every word while Martin can’t actually do anything about it, anymore.

That is, of course until Daisy and Basira’s arrival in Scotland. Martin has never had the easiest relationship with either of them, but Daisy had been the closest thing Jon had had as an ally during their last months at the archives so he’s at least trying to be open about her. Basira is another story though.

At this point, two days have passed since their arrival and up until now, Martin and Basira have actually managed to be civil to each other. Or rather, to be as little in the same room as the other as possible and ignore them if it couldn’t be helped, which had worked out quite well until now.

Daisy and Jon are out again of course despite the rain; strolling along the shore or the footpaths that snake all along the hills and fields around the village, armed with the only two sets of raincoats and umbrellas that had been lying around the house and there’s really not much to be done around this middle of nowhere besides reading.

Looking back, Basira could have just returned to the spare bedroom she and Daisy are staying at for the time being after they’d left, but even the thought of spending the entire day cooped up in that tiny room makes Basira jumpy. It’s been ages since she’d stayed at any place for more than 24 hours at a time and locking herself up in a single room, is not exactly what she wants right now. The open living room that takes up almost half the lower floor at least is more spacy than the adjoining, rather squat rooms and it _is_ rather comfortable with its overflowing shelves and sitting area in front of the glass wall facing the beach.

At first, even Martin’s presence had not really been noticeable with him typing away on his laptop at the dining table on the other side of the room and occasionally squinting at the screen. Until he is finished with that anyway and powers down his computer, which means that there’s nothing between his frown and Basira anymore, except her book which isn’t quite large enough to fill out her entire field of vision.

“Just what exactly is your problem?”, she finally asks, looking up from her page and right at Martin.

“Are you serious?”

“I am, so either spit it out or stop looking at me like that”

“You really want to know?”

“Would I have asked otherwise? You may think, you got the whole quietly sulking thing down, but it’s still pretty obvious to everyone else”

Perhaps spending almost an entire year on her own and hunting for the love of her life had not had the most positive influence on Basira’s social skills, but the words are out now anyway and she’s not in the mood to take them back. Not after two days of Martin quietly glaring at her whenever they were in the same room and not once opening his mouth.

“You’re unbelievable”

Basira merely raises an eyebrow, closing her book around her index finger and setting it down in her lap.

“Like I said, either get it out, or deal with it on your own but spare me your wounded puppy schtick”

“My problem”, Martin says after a short pause deliberately slowly and calmly, “is what you kept pulling with Jon after he came back to the archives”

“Talk about holding a grudge”

“Oh, I’m sorry”, Martin’s eyes narrow and his hands close around the edge of his laptop, “I didn’t mean to remind you of wanting to kill my husband- and don’t tell me, that I’m exaggerating; I overheard enough of what you and Melanie were talking about when he wasn’t with you”

“You mean, while you were holding his hand and helping him regain his humanity and not turn into some creepy all-knowing monster?”

“I was trying to gain Peter Lukas’ trust, you know that”, Martin hisses, face paling in anger, “Or do I really have to explain the concept of loneliness to you?”

“Don’t tell me, you didn’t enjoy hiding all alone in your little office and have us deal with everything”

Basira feels her face heat up as Martin’s skin goes almost white. If both of them weren’t so angry, it would probably be rather funny to watch her go bright red in anger while Martin blanches for the same reason.

“Do you really think, I wouldn’t have told Peter off the day Jon woke up if I’d had the chance? That I wouldn’t have tried to get him out of all of this and keep him save? That I enjoyed, knowing all of you were in danger and I couldn’t do anything to help?”

Martin’s hands are trembling, and he isn’t quite sure whether it’s from anger or fighting the urge to burst into tears but he tightens his grip around his laptop anyway and stays right where he is, feet firmly planted against the wooden floor.

“Oh, I’m sure it was _terrible_ for you, cutting yourself off from everything like you always did while we were literally swarmed by monsters and had to fight”

“And I forgot, what a fucking _spectacular_ job you did with that- oh, that’s right, you didn’t. Melanie was always on the brink of going absolutely ballistic and almost died from her slaughter-mark until- _right_ , until _Jon_ noticed she still had that bullet in her leg and the damage it had done to her before _he_ got it out and she stabbed him with you merely looking on”

“That’s not how that went down”

Both their voices grow louder with every word and before long, they’re full on yelling. It’s already probably the longest conversation they’d ever had.

“It isn’t? Sorry, I must have mixed that up with the memory of Jon having his ribs ripped out to have an anchor when he went into the buried to get your girlfriend back and you did… that’s right, you went on Elias’ wild goose chase”

“I was trying to help her, and Elias was my best choice”

“Obviously”

“Because you deserve an award for piling Jon’s stupid tape recorders around the casket?”

“I just tried to do something, since he didn’t exactly have anything or anyone else at the archives to anchor him- _might_ have had something to do with all of you cutting him out and making him feel like a monster”

“You knew what he was doing; you talked to the women he’d compelled! He was a monster!”

“So were Daisy and Melanie and you had no trouble hanging out with them and not making them feel like shit for losing their humanity!”

“They never attacked innocent people! They deserved help”

“Because going beserk on anyone is totally normal, defendable human behaviour! Ever thought about how everything would have gone down if you’d stopped alienating Jon for a second and tried to help him? How much easier it would have been for him to fight-”

“I didn’t want to be in charge at all! I only was because no one else, very much including you, couldn’t be bothered and I don’t know what you’re imagining, but it was fucking hard, trying to do anything and not get anyone killed without holding three people’s hands!”

“That’s not what I’m saying”

“What are you saying then?”

“I’m saying”, and at this point, Martin forces himself to take a deep breath, both his and Basira’s voice still ringing in his ears, “that you’re a fucking hypocrite for not caring when Daisy succumbed to the hunt while you made Jon’s life miserable about becoming an avatar of the beholding. That’s my problem with you”

“And I have a problem with you bailing on us and now trying to turn me into the bad guy”

“I don’t have to try very hard”

“It’s not difficult to see you as the hypocritical coward you are either”

“Well then”, Martin bites out after a short pause, which is filled by both their heavy breathing as they continue to glower at each other across the room, “I’m glad we settled that then”

“Yeah, was a fucking pleasure to talk to you”

“ _Likewise_ ”

The feet of Martin’s chair shriek as they scrape over the floor. He barely pauses to grab his keys from one of the tiny hooks next to the doorframe on his way out and slams the door shut behind himself. Basira gives him a minute head start before she’s yanking on her jacket and too leaves the house.

Once outside, she can barely make out her former colleague’s receding silhouette through the downpour and turns the other way before she starts running. She doesn’t stop until her sides feel like they’re about to split and she has to slow down to a slightly less agitated walk. By the time she returns to the cottage around sunset drenched, Jon and Daisy are already back, getting dinner ready.

Basira heads straight to the downstairs bathroom to grab a shower. If she sees Martin setting the dining table and trying not to step on the kitten that’s winding her way around his ankles as he walks, she doesn’t spare him a second glance. They don’t exchange another word for the remaining time she and Daisy stay with them.

Basira merely holds Daisy a little tighter in her arms that night than is strictly comfortable for either of them, but Daisy doesn’t push her. She merely asks whether they want to go for a run together tomorrow morning, and some of the tension leaves Basira’s body when she kisses her. Martin doesn’t really want to say anything to his husband either, but that night, when they’ve retired to their bedroom upstairs, Jon sits him down at the foot of their bed and asks what’s happened while he and Daisy had been gone.

“I suppose, you two didn’t exactly sit down afterwards and come to an understanding, huh?”, he asks softly, when Martin mutters a cliff notes version of their fight.

“Not exactly”

“Both of you just left in a huff?”

“It was either that or switching over to a physical confrontation and I’m not exactly the fighting type”

Martin just about manages to keep straight face when Jon laughs quietly and kisses the lines on Martin’s forehead that haven’t really gone away all evening.

“Are you feeling better at least?”

“A little”, Martin admits, not meeting his husband’s gaze, “kind of said everything I’d wanted to say. Kind of also said a lot of things, I shouldn’t have said”

“That does tend to happen during arguments I’ve been told”, Jon tells him in a soft voice and, when Martin still doesn’t look up, decides fuck it, and climbs onto his husband’s lap, pressing close, “would you want to… have an open conversation with her? In a slightly calmer tone of voice?”

“I don’t think either of us is going to change our minds”

Martin doesn’t add that he certainly won’t, since he’s right but that’s kind of the point anyway.

“I guess, it’s not like you’ll have to spend a lot of time together in the future either”

“Not very bloody likely”, Martin agrees, such a bitter line around his mouth that Jon is almost tempted to laugh again.

“Will you manage to get through tomorrow without physically attacking one another?”

Martin can feel Jon’s soft smile when he kisses his cheek and sighs a tad more heavily than necessary.

“Barely”

“Okay then”, Jon whispers as he lays his forehead against the side of his husband’s face, “but you will tell me if you need-“

“Jon, I’ll be fine. I’m not five years old anymore and can handle dealing with someone I… I’m not terribly fond of for treating my husband like shit”

“Would it do anything, if I disagreed with that statement?”

“Probably not”

“Alright then”, Jon says softly, “I’ll just try and come up with something fun for us to do the day after tomorrow then, something you can look forward to”

“You’re aware that you’re being ridiculously sweet, aren’t you?”

“I’m not”, Jon grumbles half heartily, minty breath flowing against Martin’s jowl from where he’s still pressing close to him, “I just don’t see the point of letting you be miserable when I can actually talk to you and try to make you feel better”

“Okay”, Martin says after a short pause of fighting the urge to propose to Jon all over again, voice just a little choked up, “you do that”

\---

The following day is as awkward as you’d expect, but it passes uneventfully. Jon and Daisy go for a last walk through the neighbouring villages while Martin retreats into the study upstairs and buries himself in his classwork to not have to be in the same room as Basira who gets through two books in a similar way. It’s easier than facing the remainders of the argument that’s still sweltering between them.

When Daisy and Basira leave on a cool Sunday afternoon, only Jon and Daisy hug, Basira and Jon say goodbye and Daisy waves at Martin, who shows her a weak smile.

“Everything alright?”, Jon asks, not even trying to keep the laugh out of his voice, once Basira and Daisy are out of sight.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about”

Martin doesn’t quite manage to hang onto his neutral expression, when Jon throws his arms around him, gets onto his tiptoes and plants a kiss against his cheek.

“I’m sure you don’t”

Jon grins up at his husband, hair loose and blowing over his face and eyes in the breeze. Martin is pretty sure Jon has smiled more in the past year than during the whole time they’d worked at the archives. Which honestly isn’t that much of a challenge anyway and these days it’s really not all that hard to make Jon smile, but Martin can still coo.

“Nope”, Martin agrees but really, life’s too short to let his… ex-colleague cast a shadow over a day with his gorgeous husband so he mirrors Jon’s expression and, just because he can, doesn’t just hug him back, but lifts him up and Jon throws back his head and laughs when he wraps his legs around his husband’s middle.

“You know, I forget”, he tells Jon sweetly and Jon’s eyebrows rise on instinct, “did I carry you over our threshold after our wedding?”

“Yes, and up the stairs at the safehouse”

Jon is _giggling_ at this point and Martin takes a moment to just bask in it.

“But not here? That just seems rude”

“Does it now?”

“Oh, yes”

“Then there’s really only one thing to be done about it, isn’t it?”

“Watch your head, my love”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just thought, a bit of aftermath was in order.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it <3


	10. III. Bonus Chapter

The last time, the yellow door appears is on a downcast Saturday afternoon. Up above in the sky the clouds have not opened up once that day, and it’s too cool and wet to stay outside for more than a couple of minutes. Still, Jon and Martin stand in front of their house and the door that should not be there.

Martin’s heart is hammering away in his chest and Jon is holding himself so rigidly, Martin wonders how he’s able to move and breathe at all, but he does, move out of the way of the opening door and he does breathe just a little too fast and too shallowly.

After Basira and Daisy had left, they had sat down one evening and made an emergency plan. Well, they had made _sixteen_ emergency-plans, one for every fear that could go after them, and one for non-entity related emergencies, all of them featuring several steps and options depending on the actual situation; Martin was nothing if not thorough. It had been a very, very long evening.

Still, Jon doesn’t feel nearly as unprepared as the last time Helen had come by and he can busy himself by going over every step of the plans, while they wait for her to come out. The fact that, quite possibly, neither of them will ever have to face anything like this alone again helps perhaps more than it should.

Jon is still holding onto his husband’s hand too tightly, but Martin is clutching right back, and they don’t let go when Helen steps outside, a pale green ribbon tied around her neck.

The colour has just finished draining from Jon’s face, when Martin asks, what exactly is coming for them in a tight voice.

“ _The end_ ”, Helen beams at them.

“Wait, _Oliver_ is coming here?“,

Martin turns so sharply to face him, Jon jumps, his husband’s hand still in his own while Helen nods.

“Who’s Oliver?”

“The avatar of the end”, Jon says a little more slowly, because surely, that had to be obvious at this point.

“ _The extremely handsome avatar of the end_ ”, Helen corrects him, smile growing ever wider.

“Do you know what he wants?”

Jon can feel Martin’s gaze on him, and he isn’t quite sure why.

“ _No idea_ ”, Helen says brightly, eyes fixed on Jon and darting to his husband from time to time.

“Well, thank you Helen, we really appreciate it”, Jon finally says, fighting the urge to look from her to Martin as well.

“ _Of course_ ”, Helen is grinning just a tad too widely when she waves and turns, “ _until next time_ ”

“So, we go pack our stuff and leave then?”, Martin asks, voice slightly off and Jon can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something.

“I actually don’t think we have to”

“ _Oh_?”

Martin raises an eyebrow and okay, Jon has definitely missed something.

“I mean, we can still go, but Oliver-“

“ _Extremely_ _handsome_ Oliver who is the avatar of death and whom you know for some reason”

“I wouldn’t know about the handsome part”

“How so?”

“Well, I never really saw him”, Jon shrugs, as he pulls Martin back towards their real front door and through before they get completely drenched, “only read his statement and when he woke me up, he didn’t stay long enough for me to talk to him. I think Georgie kicked him out of the hospital”

The corner of Jon’s mouth drops when he mentions Georgie, as always. They haven’t talked since he’d come to her flat and tried to talk to Melanie – tried to get Melanie, _who had just blinded herself to get out of the ceaseless watcher’s service_ , to help him. The only sign of life he’d gotten from her and Melanie, had been two texts on Christmas and his birthday, complete with pictures of the admiral in appropriate headgear and even that is more than he deserved, he knows that, but it still hurts.

He shakes his head now in an attempt to get rid of that thought and instead looks up at his husband, who’s pursing his lips.

“What?”

“Nothing”

“Martin”, Jon almost laughs at his pinched expression, but instead tugs at his hand, as if that would make him answer faster, “I know I’m not that great at reading emotions but I know something’s up with you – something that’s not nothing”

“It’s not important”

“No”, Jon says very slowly, going so far as to get onto his tiptoes and gently turning Martin’s head to face him with his free hand, when he looks away, “of course it’s important if it’s bothering you that much and I can’t do anything about it if you don’t _talk_ to me”

Martin sighs, when he does meet his husband’s gaze.

“What is it, my love?”, Jon asks, voice gentler than ever and face open – and Martin feels kind of bad.

“It’s just”, he starts, but trails off, casting his eyes downwards again, “ _you never told me about that_ “

“About the day I woke up?”, Jon asks softly, “I’m sorry. I wanted to when I got back to the archives, but everything had already gone to hell and you were gone, and afterwards, I just forgot; there was so much else going on”

But Martin shakes his head, cheeks flushing in a faint shade of pink.

“That’s not what I meant”

“And what did you mean?”

“Do I really have to spell it out for you?”, Martin sighs, but shakes his head the next moment, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“Martin, honestly, it’s alright, but I’m afraid I don’t-“

“You didn’t tell me that all it took to wake you up after six months of being basically dead, was some guy coming by for ten minutes while me sitting with you every day for hours and talking to you and even piling your stupid recorders all around you wasn’t good enough”

It all comes out in a bit of a rush and Martin immediately snaps his mouth shut but that doesn’t help taking the words back.

“You’re not … _jealous_ , are you?”, Jon asks, a faint smile playing around the corner of his mouth.

“ _No_ ”, Martin says too fast, “of course not”, his face feels so hot, he wonders if his husband can feel it from where he’s still cupping Martin’s face in his hand.

“…you sure about that, love?”

Jon’s thumb brushes against his husband’s warm skin and Martin squeezes his eyes shut.

“Do we _really_ have to do this right now?”, he asks through a shaky exhale, eyes still closed behind his glasses, “shouldn’t we at least _try_ and leave before…”

“I honestly don’t think, he’s coming here to hurt us. The end generally doesn’t get involved”

“Because they’ll win in the end anyway?”

“Yes”, Jon agrees quietly, lowering himself back onto the soles of his feet when his toes’ and legs’ complaints grow too loud to ignore any longer but he doesn’t let go of his husband, “maybe he has important news, or just wants to have some good tea”

“Or he wants to see his sleeping beauty”

“I’m fairly certain, he didn’t _kiss_ me awake”

“Fairly certain?”

“Well, I’d wager Georgie wouldn’t just have told him to get lost, if she’d walked in on _that_ ”

“Yeah, probably”, Martin relents, tipping his head forwards until he can lay his forehead against Jon’s, “what did he do then?”

“Just”, Jon pauses for a moment, searching for words, “he just _talked_ to me. Told me how he became an avatar and…”

“And?”

“And he told me, I had a choice to make at some point”

“Which you did”, Martin says in a much softer tone of voice than earlier.

“Which I did”, Jon agrees mouth suddenly feeling dry, “by the time, I woke up, he was gone”, he swallows, then laughs hoarsely, “really not all that romantic”

“Yeah, I know”, Martin sighs, lifting up his free hand and placing it over his husband’s, “I’m sorry”

“You don’t have to be”

“Feels like I do”

“If I’d have had the choice, I would have woken up for you, you know that, right?”

“I’m just glad you did”

“Me too”, Jon whispers when Martin turns his head and presses his lips against his husband’s fingers, palm, and wrist, “it would have made for a great story though”

“I think you literally following me into the realm of an ancient fear and getting me out does just fine”

“Perhaps”

Before Martin can answer, there’s a soft knock at the door and they pull apart.

“Okay then”, Martin says, a tad too cheerily to be genuine and Jon snorts quietly as he opens the door and lets the avatar of the end in.

\---

Jon stares down at Oliver’s outstretched hand and makes no move to accept it.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Jonathan Sims”, the avatar of the end says softly, hand still outstretched between them but coming no closer to meet Jon’s.

They have ended up in the kitchen after all, having tea and the cake Oliver had brought. At some point their guest had returned his cup to its saucer with a soft clink, leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs, eyes surveying the couple in front of him as he’d said what he’d come here to say and made his offer.

“You know”, Jon replies, lifting his own hand up and shaking his arm until the cuff of Martin’s cardigan slides down to his elbow and bunches there, “I heard that before somewhere”

The skin of his right is still rough and obviously scarred, the marks reaching form the tips of his fingers to his wrist. Martin has never shown any sign of repulsion of course, has made a point of always taking Jon’s right hand and kissing his fingers to proof it, but there’s a reason Jon wears gloves when he leaves the house or keeps his hand in his pocket as long as he can. At least he can still use his hand properly.

“Also, it’s not me I’m worried about”

“Of course”, Oliver inclines his head slightly, “Take your time but I promise, nothing bad will happen. No apocalypse or such.”

“No offense, but promises from… _other avatars_ aren’t what they used to be since I stopped being able to tell when someone’s lying”

“Such is life”

“What about”, Martin says into the silence following Oliver’s last statement, “I do it. Nothing _bad_ can happen if I’m the one-“

“No”, Jon cuts him off, “I’m not letting you risk anything for me”

“ _O, come on_ -“, Martin starts, but Oliver clears his throat.

“I’m afraid, that doesn’t really matter here. Martin was never touched by the end, so this won’t work for him”

“You’re the avatar of the end”, Martin says, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he glares at Oliver, “mark me right here and now then if that’s what it takes”

“ _No_ ”, Jon repeats, more urgently this time, “Martin, don’t be- please”, he whispers, having turned to his husband, and places his hands on his forearms, “please don’t do this”

“We don’t have quite enough time for that anyway”, Oliver interjects when Martin opens his mouth again, “it’s either going to be you, Jon, or no one”

“But you still don’t have to”, Martin reminds his husband in a softer tone of voice.

He wants to say, that it doesn’t matter that much anyway, but they both know it does. He just hopes, Oliver had included the possibility of Jon learning something that makes him feel even more guilty when he’d said, that nothing bad would happen if Jon took him up on the offer to talk to Tim and Sasha.

“I do though”, Jon does sigh in the end, shifting in his seat as he squares his shoulders and reaches out to take Oliver’s hand.

Just before the tips of his fingers make contact, Martin stops him, laying his own hand over his husband’s forearm.

“Just”, he says a little too quickly, trying to ignore Oliver on the other side of the table as he moves his hand over to Jon’s free one and links their fingers, “just squeeze my hand if anything feels wrong and I keep an eye on you“

“Okay”, Jon squeezes Martin’s hand as he reaches for Oliver’s, “thank you, dear”

“Just out of interest”, Oliver starts, when he takes Jon’s hand into his cool one, “what _would_ you do, if I were lying and wanted to do something to Jon?”

“I don’t think-“

“I’d put your eye out with that knife”, Martin cuts his husband off with a friendly smile, indicating the pie knife on the table, “and even if you’re immortal, I’m sure that’s gonna hurt”

“Good thing, I’m not planning anything then”

Oliver doesn’t even raise an eyebrow, voice remaining level as he turns to Jon.

“Are you ready?”

“I am”

Jon has already closed his eyes when Martin kisses his cheek and whispers, “tell Tim and Sasha that I miss them” into his ear.

He wants to turn to Martin and say “of course”, but a chill is spreading from Oliver’s fingers through his, up his arm and shoulder until Jon feels like someone has enclosed him in ice and he can’t move.

 _Jon feels like he should be having trouble breathing, like he should feel his heartbeat in his throat but there’s only coldness and he’s… calm. He_ knows _, there’s nothing he can do, so he just lets go and forces himself to relax, letting the coolness flow through him and fill him up until he doesn’t feel cold anymore. It’s almost disconcertingly easy to just give up- give up everything really, all resistance, suspicion and, strangest of all, all fear._

_“You know, he always was kinda self-centred, but now he’s literally stepped behind the veil and is still too full of himself to even open his eyes”_

_And it’s not like Jon has ever stopped missing Sasha and Tim, but hearing Tim’s voice, and feeling someone lightly push against his shoulder, just opens up something inside Jon- or rather opens up a pit behind him and he falls right into it, even as he opens his eyes._

_Jon has tried to brace himself for Tim sneering at him, and Sasha backing away, but there they stand, or float, or simply are, for Jon can feel no ground beneath his feet, can’t make out anything around them but faint lights and shades of colours weakly pulsating around them._

_“Hey, boss-man”, Tim is towering above him, even in the afterlife, but for the first time since Jane Prentiss had attacked the Institute, his face is open and soft, and he’s grinning down at Jon, hand still on his shoulder, “come here often?”_

_“Not recently”, Jon tries to say, but his- well his breath isn’t really knocked out of his chest, when Sasha, the real Sasha, pushes Tim aside and pulls Jon into an impossibly tight hug, but he stops speaking anyway._

_“I’m sorry, Sasha”, he whispers into her hair and hugs her back as tightly as he can, “I’m- for everything. I can’t even begin-“_

_“And you don’t have to”, Sasha cuts him off, not letting go, “so shut up, okay?”_

_“Okay”_

_When they finally do pull apart, Jon turns to Tim, not quite daring to reach out to him._

_“I know, what I did was unforgivable, but-“_

_“You’re really not losing any time, are you?”_

_One of Tim’s eyebrow just about vanishes into his hairline, when he crosses his arms in front of his chest, but he’s still grinning. The scars on his face and arms are gone, Jon notes dully when he closes his mouth and simply stares back._

_“Well”, he finally tries again, meekly, “I don’t exactly know, how much time I have with you”_

_“Enough to relax a little”, Tim tells him, rolling his eyes but in the fond way, Jon had not seen since everything had started going wrong between them, “if you’ve figured out how to do that at this point”_

_“According to Martin I haven’t”_

_“You know, you could have really gotten over yourself a little earlier, and saved me twenty pounds”, Sasha tells him, hands on her hips._

_Both their eyes lit up at the mention of Martin though and Jon feels a warmth flood through him that seems at odds with the strange non-temperature and non-gravity of the afterlife._

_“I won those fair and square”, Tim slings an arm around Sasha’s shoulders, and she pushes her elbow between his ribs._

_“Was there anyone at the archives who didn’t bet on Martin and me getting together?”_

_“I think Earl didn’t care”, Sasha tells him after a moment that lasts a little too long for Jon to not get flustered, “but janitors usually have better things to do. By the way”, she reaches for Jon’s left hand before he has time to pull away and semi-gently drags it up high enough for her and Tim to examine Jon’s ring._

_“Martin always had great taste”, Tim nods, his smile softening when he adds, “there’s a line of one of his poems engraved on the inside, isn’t there?”_

_“It might be”_

_The inside of Martin’s wedding band on the other hand simply reads ‘No longer lonely’ and the date of their wedding._

_“He’s happy now though, isn’t he?”, Sasha asks, when she lets go of Jon’s hand, “doesn’t cut himself off from everyone else anymore?”_

_“No, I think, he’s quite content now. He”, Jon has to clear his throat before he goes on, trying to get rid of the bitter taste, the reminder of why they’re here has left in his mouth, “he told me to-“_

_“We know”, Tim interrupts him in a softer tone of voice, “we miss him too. Been to long since… since either of us got a decent cup of tea”_

_“I’ll tell him”_

_Jon’s voice breaks the tiniest bit towards the last words and he tries to swallow around the lump in his throat but it doesn’t really make a difference, when his vision becomes blurred and he fights not to let the sobs building up in his chest out._

_“Hey, come on now”, Tim says, but he’s already pulling Jon into him and wrapping his arms around him, “sh, it’s alright”_

_Tim had always given fantastic hugs. He had also not once asked whether Jon had actually wanted to be hugged, which had been one of the best things about it; had just pulled Jon into his arms and held him tight until he’d felt him relax and then some. Before Martin, before Scotland, those hugs, and sometimes Sasha’s were about the only form of proper physical contact the former archivist had received from time to time._

_“No”, Jon sniffs now, “I didn’t even apologize properly, didn’t even try to-“_

_“Because we told you, you don’t have to”, Sasha reminds him when she steps up from the other side and slings her arms around both, “and we meant it. We don’t want you or Martin to hang onto all that guilt and sadness. It’s over, you two got through and that’s all that matters”_

_“I, I didn’t just talk about getting you killed”, Jon whispers, voice thick, “I’m so, so sorry about the way I treated you before that- Sasha, I didn’t even- and Tim, I”, he shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts, “if I could go back in time and change-“_

_“But you can’t”, Tim interrupts him, somehow managing to shrug without hitting either Sasha or Jon, “I mean, I’m not gonna lie, before the whole unknowing-thing, in the moment I meant everything I said but… now? Being here kind of gives you perspective and I know about everything that went down afterwards, so even if I were still holding a grudge, Sasha here would tell me to get over it with everything Elias put all of you through”_

_“That’s still no excuse”, Jon can’t help himself but add._

_“Maybe, but I’ll tell you something”, Tim says after a couple of seconds, “you can trust me that everything’s alright; we’re both fine now and really, it’s okay, we promise. But if you hurt Martin, I will manage to find a way back to you living folk and haunt you till the end of your life and make every moment of your existence miserable, how does that sound?”_

_“Good”, Jon sniffs, but his shoulders are no longer shaking between Tim and Sasha._

_“I’m on board with that”_

_Sasha grins quietly at Tim over Jon’s head when Tim rolls his eyes, but they don’t let go until their former boss has stopped sniffling._

_“Jon”, a new voice cuts through the silence then, “I’m afraid your time here’s up”, Oliver says apologetically as he offers Jon his hand again, “unless you’d like to stay for good”_

_“No, thank you”, Jon shakes his head, then turns one last time to Tim and Sasha, “I really- thank you. For everything”_

_“Yeah, yeah, boss”, Tim squeezes Jon’s shoulder one last time, “we love you too”_

_“Tell Martin, what we said, okay?”, Sasha ads before she kisses Jon’s cheek, “And tell him, we really always loved him and spending time with him too”_

_“Of course”, Jon takes a deep breath, then takes Oliver’s hand again, “I guess, I’ll see you then”_

_He doesn’t quite catch Sasha’s reply, just hears Tim snicker and then everything’s cold and darkness again._

Martin isn’t quite sure what he’d expected when Oliver had offered Jon to slip behind the veil, but sitting around a table and holding Jon’s hand while his body grows cold and utterly still isn’t it.

He’s holding his breath, trying to make out his husband’s breathing, but he hears nothing, and Jon’s chest moves as little as the rest of him. Martin is just about to demand, what exactly Oliver thinks he’s doing when Oliver presses his finger to his lips and mouths ‘be still’, eyes flicking from Jon’s still face to his wristwatch.

Time passes, Martin has no idea how much, but at some point, Oliver gets up and rounds the table, Jon’s other hand still in his. Martin can’t make out, what Oliver whispers into Jon’s ear when he leans in, but he can feel the tremor that goes through his husband’s body the next moment. Can see his eyes open and hear him gasp for breath, chest now rising and falling as hard as if he’d just run a mile. Jon’s grip around Martin’s fingers tightens when Martin lays his hand against his face and gently turns his head to face him, breath still loud and rough in the quiet afternoon air. His skin is ice-cold.

“Got everything settled?”, Oliver asks as he straightens up.

“Yes- yes thank you”, Jon gasps, still starring at his husband with wide eyes.

“Just”, Martin starts, still holding Jon’s gaze, “just why exactly did you go to the effort of coming here and doing that?”

“Like I said, I dreamed of your friends a couple of times and got a short note, telling me what to say to you and do. Thought it would be better to just get on with it”

Oliver shrugs.

“You did, but-“

“Look, I don’t make the rules. I’m not sure why I got that message in the first place, but I figure there’s some convoluted reason or whatever behind it. Best not think about it too much if you ask me”

There’s not much that can be said after that and after a couple of seconds, Oliver straightens his tie and goes on;

“I’ll see myself out. Still got a lot of things to do today and hey”, he places his hand on Jon’s shoulder for moment when he passes him and Martin by, “I’ll see you when it’s time. The end doesn’t… particularly want anyone interfering with that in the case of you two so there’s that”

Before either Jon nor Martin can reply, or even think about the last part, Oliver has passed them and the front door clicks behind him, sooner than it should be possible.

“Come here you”, Martin finally pulls Jon into his arms and holds him close, until his husband calms down and finally regains the ability to breathe normally, “are you okay?”

“Yes”, Jon nods, still a little shakily and only then does he realize his teeth are chattering and he’s trembling in Martin’s embrace, “yes, I-”, he trails off, leaning into his husband and just pushing close to his warmth.

“Can you walk?”, Martin eventually softly asks, still rubbing his hands up and down Jon’s arms but that doesn’t seem to help much.

“I think so”

And Jon can walk the five meters from the kitchen to the living room, albeit slowly and with Martin’s help. By the time, he has managed to pull his legs onto the couch and lean back, Martin is back at his side, a steaming mug in his left hand, which he places on the coffee table in front of Jon, and a hot water bottle in his right, which finds a new home in Jon’s arms before Martin eases him onto his side and lays down beside him.

“Is this better?”, Martin asks, when he pulls the quilt that usually lives on the back of the couch over them, slings his arms around Jon and presses his face into the back of his neck.

“Yes, _yes_ thank you”, Jon whispers, hugging the hot water bottle to his chest and pushing back against his husband.

Martin only loosens his hold around him when Jon stops shaking, and even then, not much.

“Did it, you know”, Martin eventually starts, “did it work? Did you see them?”

“It did”, Jon murmurs as he’s tugging one of his husbands hands up to his lips and kisses its back before he relays his conversation with Tim and Sasha.

By the time he’s finished, his skin is a little warmer, still slightly too cool, but no longer feeling like he’d just stepped out of a freezer.

“Are you okay?”, Jon asks softly, Martin’s breath still tousling his hair and brushing against the skin of the back of his neck.

“Me? I’m not the one who literally went behind the veil. Again”

“I don’t think the coma counts, I only dreamed of living people then”

“And Oliver”

“And Oliver”, Jon agrees, carefully twisting in his husband’s arms until he can bury his face in his chest and feel his heartbeat through the soft blue wool of his jumper, “no, but I’m fine. It was, it was kind of nice to see them”

Martin hums quietly.

“You know”, he eventually says, and Jon tips back his head to look at him, grey and black curls falling against Martin’s shoulder when he moves, “I think Helen’s ought to get her eyes checked; he’s really not that hot”

“Rather an acceptable level of hotness?”, Jon laughs quietly, stretching up to kiss Martin’s jaw and Martin nods slowly.

“He’s kind of alright, I guess”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that, my love”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just because season 5 is going to make all of us unbelieveably sad, does not mean we cannot draw inspiration from it.
> 
> As always; thanks for reading, I hope you liked it.
> 
> Also thank you very much to everyone who took the time to comment; it really made me incredibly happy and this fic. wouldn't be half as long if you wouldn't have responded so positively <3
> 
> I think, I'm actually slowly but surely running out of bonus chapters so these updates won't go on for much longer I'm afraid. (Which does not have to mean, that this is going to be my only TMA-contribution)
> 
> Lots of love


	11. IV. Bonus Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this fic, you might want to keep your eyes peeled for another alternative way this series could have gone - although I literally just started writing that one, so it's going to be a while until I upload it.
> 
> Anyway, thank you so very much for reading!

The thing is, that Jonathan Sims is fine these days. Mostly.

Most of the time, he’s not in pain, barely notices his marks anymore. People have stopped openly staring when he’s in public and Martin doesn’t care anyway. As much as Jon hates to admit it, the fact that he’d known- had _beheld_ that last part to be true before the eye had rejected him helped enormously.

Of course, there’s always the chance that Martin could have changed his mind, but honestly most days even Jon can admit that he doesn’t look worse than when they’d first come to Scotland. His hair isn’t wiry and coarse anymore for example, his skin no longer greyish and dry and, thanks to Martin, he no longer looks like a half-starved street cat. Both of them had been kind of surprised, that the bags beneath both their eyes and the haunted look they’d acquired over the last years had gone away after all.

On one of the first evenings after they’d arrived at the safe house Martin had told his then-boyfriend to _know_ , what Martin saw when he looked at the former archivist, then still avatar of the beholding and that sight still is something that is probably never going to leave Jon.

That evening had been also been the first and only time, Jon had put an image into someone else’s head – and he’d been scared beyond believe when Martin’s eyes had clouded over and he’d only stared at him for a couple of minutes. At that point, not even a whole week had passed since Jon had followed him into the lonely and guided him back out and Martin had still regularly stilled, gone silent and absent back then. Even his body temperature had dropped when he had gotten into that state and Jon had not noticed straight away and snapped him out of it.

Many an afternoon had consisted in Jon brushing the tips of his fingers against Martin’s face or squeezing his hands in his as tightly as he could without hurting Martin to get him back, then sitting down with him and easing Martin’s upper body backwards until his head came to a rest on Jon’s lap. It had been a progress of trial and error until they’d found a routine that grounded Martin enough to relax and let go, come back to himself again and really, Jon would gladly take any excuse to run his hands through his boyfriend’s soft strands and wind Martin’s curls around his fingers while he hummed or quietly talked to him until Martin’s eyes cleared and no longer stared blankly into space.

But Martin’s face had not looked quite like that after Jon had returned the favour and shown him; he had not looked cold or absent, just still. Shocked, perhaps and Jon had nearly lost it; had barely managed to refrain from gripping Martin’s shoulders and shaking him until he showed any sign of life.

The memory of what Elias had done to his love in a similar way had come up unbidden and when Martin had finally moved, to wipe at his eyes behind his glasses of all things, Jon had been just about ready to walk into the ocean and never return- which had lasted about as long as it had taken his boyfriend to regain the ability to have a coherent train of thought and tug the former archivist into his arms, quietly sniffing as he’d buried his face in Jon’s hair and pressed his lips against any inch of Jon’s skin he’d been able to reach.

Really, the only downside of Jon no longer serving the ceaseless watcher and thus losing his powers was that they had only been able to do that once – which was more than everyone else got, sure, but actually looking through your loved one’s eyes and seeing- well, it had helped. A lot. Even the memory helps most days and it’s not like they don’t talk about this. If there’s one thing, they do it’s talking – which is both a lot harder and a lot easier than either of them would have thought.

But that still is only most days and Jon’s marks are still obvious and don’t go away, probably won’t go away at all, or even get less obvious. And really, that’s fine. Usually. Jon barely notices them anymore. He doesn’t go out of his way to search out shining or reflective surfaces but he hasn’t really done that when he still had more than an inch of intact skin and all of his ribs left, so that’s not that much of a change.

Some days though, he wakes up and his skin feels rough and just not right; the marks Prentiss’ worms had left behind standing out especially noticeably. It’s nothing, really, not compared to the weeks after Jonah’s failed ritual or Jon’s time at the institute in general, but it’s not exactly pleasant either.

On those days, the thought that perhaps Martin used to think him the most beautiful thing in the world but maybe no longer does, and that every other person on earth doesn’t think anything along those lines when they see him comes unbidden and settles down to stay.

“Are you okay?”, Martin asks on one such morning, both arms wrapped around his husband and hugging him closer when Jon’s body tenses up almost as soon as his eyes flutter open and his breath catches in his throat.

“Yeah, I’m okay”, Jon whispers back, because it’s not really a lie. He’s a bit uncomfortable, but he’s snuggled into Martin’s chest and can just about make out Sappho sleeping curled up at foot of their bed, a tiny black ball amidst the soft grey sheets so that definitely counts as okay at least, “good morning, dear”

“Morning, love”

Martin is, still half-asleep, already rubbing slow circles into his husband’s side, careful and wide and just the way, that’s pleasant and not tickling. He tries his best not to sound wary, even as it takes Jon longer than usual to slowly relax into the caress and melt against him.

“I think, it’s my turn to make breakfast”, Jon finally says.

Perhaps moving about and having something to do will distract him - it sometimes does on those days - and Jon is willing to give it a shot if it just makes his skin stop feeling strange.

“I thought French toast perhaps?”

“We don’t have any milk”, Martin yawns, burying his face in Jon’s hair and showing no sign of wanting to let go anytime soon, “or eggs”

“I went by the shops yesterday evening”, Jon blindly reaches up, carefully feeling along Martin’s jaw until he can lay his hand against his jowl, smiling quietly when Martin nuzzles into his good hand. The other one balls to a first between them, fighting the urge to scratch at his scars, “got your rock sugar too, and pomegranates and those disgusting crisps you won’t eat before you try and kiss me”

“They’re just well-seasoned. It’s not their fault, you can’t handle spicy food”

“I just like my mouth not to burn five hours after I’ve had one bite that didn’t even taste of anything but pain”

“Potato, potahto”

“Yes, well they didn’t taste of that either”

Jon can feel Martin’s grin when he turns his head and kisses Jon’s palm, movements still sluggish and voice still muffled from sleep and the uncomfortableness lifts for a moment.

\---

They end up having breakfast outside in the little sitting area behind the house, watching the waves crash against the shore. Sappho follows them outside and stalks the bushes around the house while they eat, before she returns to curl up on Jon’s lap and fall asleep with the former archivist’s fingers running through her soft black fur.

It’s surprisingly mild and sunny already; only a light breeze is moving the grass that surrounds the sandy footpath leading from their garden to the beach and guides the grass blades in lazy, elaborate dance moves. Despite the pleasant warmth, Martin wraps his arm around his husband’s waist at some point and just casually holds him close while they finish their tea, and watch the seagulls strut around the beach, crying out when they take to the sky.

“I think we should do this more often”, Jon eventually sighs, head resting against Martin’s shoulder at his point and body loose and relaxed in his husband’s embrace, the strange uncomfortableness from earlier that morning forgotten.

“Breakfast outside?”, Martin asks in a soft voice, still casting his gaze from Jon to Sappho to the sea and back, determined to drink in as much as he can, “I don’t see why not, with the weather getting milder. We could probably do with spending a lot more time outside in general”

“We could, if you wanted to, also finally actually do something with all of this”, Jon uses the arm he is not resting against Martin’s thigh to gesture broadly towards the whole yard, which is basically the entire grassy area surrounding their house until it gets cut off by either their driveway or the beach itself. They’re the only residents for at least a mile on either side and the closest things they have for neighbours are the two herds of glorious cows that are out on the close by grasses during spring and summer.

“Like plant some vegetable patches?”

Martin’s eyes have followed the movement of Jon’s hands and now they’re seizing up the overgrown lawn and the unbelievable amount of weeds between the grass and the handful of bushes and trees that had already been there when they’d viewed the little seaside cottage.

The mere prospect of their own home and not being surrounded by concrete and stone on all sides had excited them more than perhaps it should have, but they had not actually planned what to do with their outside space yet, other than scrubbing the ancient lawn furniture that had been stored away in the shed and returning it to the garden itself, once March had given way to April.

“I’ve never had a proper garden, but why not? It’s not like we don’t have the time to take care of it. Should probably get some flowerbeds too, don’t you think?”

“And an herb garden”, Martin nods, a slow grin spreading over his face as he slowly turns his head from one side to the other, “maybe some lavender too, and mint”

“For our very own tea-stash?”

“Why not?”

“Why not indeed”, Jon agrees, mirroring his husband’s smile as he tips back his head to look up into his face, “we should probably get rid of the weeds first, and make some kind of plan what we want to have and where”

“My classes don’t start till four”

“So, what do you say, weeds first or planning?”

Of course, they end up pulling up weeds first and it takes forever. By the time they’ve cleared most of the garden and heavily sit down in the last bit of shade that remains in the grass, their shirts are damp with sweat and their trousers stained with green and brown. Jon’s hair has come undone from its knot of course and it’s sticking to the back and side of his neck, despite the bandana he’d tied around his head to keep it at bay.

On their last flea market-adventure, Martin had bought a light straw-hat on a whim and when he finally takes it off now, his curls are plastered down beneath it; he’s vaguely sure, he could wring them out with his hands if he tried but he really doesn’t feel the need right now. Not with the dark half-moons beneath his arms and the dirt caked beneath his nails – which seems kind of unnecessary with them having used garden gloves while they’d worked.

But the area they have managed to clear looks a lot better, and they have already mounted up a rather sizeable heap of discarded weeds and stones which they will have to figure out what to do with at some point, or at least how to get rid of. Right now though, they’re done for the day, faces pink, arms propped up against the grass behind them and hands buried in the blades as they lean back, legs stretched out in vague v-shapes in front of them and, for once, no parts of their bodies touching.

“You know”, Martin eventually starts around a yawn, turning his head to see his husband’s face, or at least make out its vague outline, “I don’t think, I’ve done anything gardening-related since I was three and my grandma still lived”

“Mine only had window boxes with herbs and you couldn’t really do any gardening with them, except watering them from time to time. Believe me, I tried”

“Which was not greatly appreciated, I gather?”

At this point, Martin does feel around for Jon’s hand and place his own over his husband’s fingers when he finds them in the overgrown grass and Jon smiles softy at the touch. 

“Not exactly”, Jon sighs as he closes his eyes and hooks his thumb around Martin’s hand, brushing the smooth skin of the back of his hand, because Martin has softest, most gentle hands he’d ever touched while even Jon’s good hand always ends up dry and rough, “perhaps I should borrow a book or two on gardening next time I’m at the library”

Martin hums in agreement, lids heavy in the gentle breeze and with the warm ache in his limbs and back which will surely bloom into full-blown soreness overnight.

“Tomorrow, right?”

“Right”, Jon agrees, fighting the urge to yawn himself, and trying to gather the will to get up, “love, I think I have to go inside and shower now, or I’ll never get up again”

“Yeah, me too”, Martin sighs.

He squeezes Jon’s fingers one last time before he lets go and climbs to his feet, stretching out his hands towards his husband and pulling Jon to his feet as soon as he stands upright.

“I’ll go upstairs, kay?”, Martin suggests when they amble back inside, fingers still interlaced with Jon’s because that’s a thing that’s just never going to get old and he only lets go at the foot of the stairs, after he’s already made it a couple of steps upwards. To his credit, Jon isn’t exactly fast to let go either.

The cottage has two bathrooms, one upstairs, next to their study, one on the ground floor, which usually serves as a guest bathroom. The location within the house is the only main difference between the two, that and the fact that the downstairs bathroom features a full-length mirror the previous owners had attached to the back of the door, for reasons neither Jon nor Martin can quite fathom.

It’s not the only reason both Martin and Jon usually opt for the other bathroom, but it’s also not like they wouldn’t take it down if they weren’t afraid of damaging either mirror or door. Today, neither of them is particularly eager to wait for the other to finish up quickly though and right now, presented with the choice of either climbing up the stairs or not doing that, Jon isn’t exactly mad about staying on the ground floor.

That is of course, until he’s finished cleaning up and, still clad in nothing but a towel, since he’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes downstairs, finds himself stood in front of the huge mirror, staring at his reflection.

When showering on his own, Martin likes his water temperature about like he likes his tea - which is to say nearly scolding and while Jon appreciates the idea of a hot shower, he usually opts for a more humane temperature when given the choice. This does not mean that Jon would pass up the opportunity of having his hair washed and Martin pressing little kisses against his shoulders for anything. Even if it does go hand in hand with feeling like he’s being boiled.

Having, however, not used boiling hot water has the side effect of not stepping out of the shower base and into a room filled with so much steam one can barely make out the sink or walls ahead. All of which would be fine if it weren’t for the huge reflective back of the door, which annoyingly has not even fogged over fully but has enough clear panes left, for Jon’s scars to reflect.

His skin is still flushed, which makes the pale lines and circular marks stand out all the more – and Jon knows, he _knows_ that he should just pull open the door and get out, not even look at his reflection, but his eyes have already fixed on it, and he can’t look away.

There’s barely an inch of skin without some kind of scarring or mark; round bitemarks are scattered around his joints, trailing up his limbs and sides, his neck and chest. Even his face is not free of them, although the left side’s a little better off than the right one.

Back then in the tunnels, in the end, he and Tim had held as tightly onto each other as they could, burying their faces in the other’s shoulder to keep the damned worms off as much skin as they could, which had worked to a point. The bruises and scratches Tim’s fingers and nails had left on Jon’s skin had stayed with him for days, and Jon’s pretty sure, Tim had not fared much better in that regard. At least most of their faces had been spared.

Still there are pale marks trailing up both sides of Jon’s jowls and almost framing his face until they fade into his hair. Weeks, months after Jane Prentiss’ attack, he had still woken up in the middle of the night, in pain and covered in cool sweat and raking his fingers through his hair after he’d dreamed of pale, legless shapes wriggling through it. He’d been this close to shaving his head during those nights until he’d remembered that he would have nothing to at least partially cover the skin of his face and neck if he cut his hair.

There’s his burnt hand, the jagged line on his thigh he has Michael to thank for, the not-quite-right shape of his ribcage where his missing ribs would be, the white line across his throat, his almost entirely grey hair. More wormscars, which prickle and burn, the longer he stares at them until he can’t bear it anymore. He barely notices he’s started scratching at them, raking his blunt nails across his skin and leaving new, angry red lines on his arms and thighs, his stomach and chest.

Jon’s eyes sting and he can’t bring himself to look away, fighting the urge to start crying. It really is like looking at a car crash and not being able to tear one’s eyes away. His throat brings forth a strange sound, meander between laugh and sob at the thought.

This is ridiculous, Jon is aware. He’s _so, so very aware_ of that and he _knows_ he should be grateful for being alive at all after everything that had happened during the last years but- _but it’s not fair_. He had never asked for any of this, had had no idea what he’d gotten himself into by working at the archives and still-

There’s a soft knock at the door, and Jon starts, face hot and eyes brimming with tears he refuses to shed as Martin asks whether he’s alright through the door. Jon has to pause and think for a moment, before he goes with the truth; “No, I don’t think I am”

Mostly because Martin would be able to tell it by his voice alone, and not answering or pushing past him like this wouldn’t do much good either. He doesn’t say another word, doesn’t even notice he’s still scratching at his marks when Martin opens the door and steps in, hair still wet from his own shower.

He doesn’t ask what Jon’s doing or what’s wrong, only closes the distance between them and places his own hands over his husband’s, closing his fingers around them when Jon keeps scratching. Jon’s direct line of sight of his reflection is blocked out by Martin, and his shoulder’s sag as he lets his head fall forward and it comes to a rest against his husband’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry”, he croaks when Martin engulfs him in a tight hug and his t-shirt and jeans brush against the angry red lines, “I just, I just”, he breaks off and simply buries his face in Martin’s chest, hands trapped between them. He’s shaking from head to toe, but not from the cool air that’s wafting in through the open door but hopeless, desperate frustration.

Martin casts a quick look from his husband to the back of the door, before he soothes Jon, “I know, my love, I know”

And the thing is, that Martin does know, which helps to some extent. Only, it doesn’t actually do anything to make things better. The former archivist tries to shove that thought away as soon as it has finished forming behind his red eyes.

“I know it’s stupid”, Jon sniffs, trying to control his breathing because he’s making an absolute fool out of himself. At least his eyes stop stinging once the tears drip down his cheeks.

“Doesn’t matter”, Martin kisses the top of his head and holds him tight – and Jon honestly didn’t know, that there was any capacity left of falling in love with Martin but here it is.

They don’t say anything for a while, and the only sounds in the bathroom are the slow drip drip drip from the showerhead and Jon’s soft sniffles and occasional apologies.

“Jon, you’ve nothing to be sorry about, you realize that, don’t you?”, Martin eventually asks in a soft voice.

“Well, you don’t really need me crying about my looks on top of everything I’ve already put you through, so…”, Jon points out, casting his eyes downwards, “and you don’t complain about anything ever”

“Now that’s bullshit”

“Compared to me”

“Compared to you, I had to deal with _one_ ancient fear trying to take me over, not fourteen and Elias giving me crap”

“Everyone had to deal with Elias’ shit”, Jon snorts, then adds in a softer voice, “’specially you”

“But I didn’t have him literally feed me to the other avatars and-“ Martin cuts himself off, but Jon finishes with a bitter smile;

“Turn you into a monster?”

“That’s not-“

“Not how you’d said it, I now”, Jon moves his free hand back into Martin’s, brushing the pad of his thumb across the palm of his hand and wrist, “still true. And at least that part’s been taken care of”

“Can I try something?”, Martin eventually asks softly, and Jon shrugs in his embrace, “you’ll just tell me to stop if you’re uncomfortable, okay?”

“Okay”, Jon whispers as he pulls back, voice still thick and eyes red and puffy from crying, “go on”

He keeps his eyes trained on Martin when he takes his hand and lifts it up to his lips. It’s his right one and before long, Martin has kissed his way up from the tips of Jon’s fingers to his wrist, wherever Jude Perry had burned him.

“Good?”, Martin asks, when he brushes his lips against the first bitemarks on Jon’s wrist and forearm.

“Yes”, Jon whispers, muscles tensing up despite himself as Martin makes his way past his elbow, up to his shoulder, not missing out a single scar.

“You know”, the words start up between the kisses Martin presses to Jon’s mangled skin and they don’t stop as Martin moves along Jon’s shoulders to his left arm, down to the tips of his fingers and up again, “I really don’t think these”, Martin’s hands are on either side of his husband’s waist, holding him as he’s brushing his lips down Jon’s chest and stomach, taking a little more time when he reaches the area where Jon’s missing ribs should be, “are ugly at all”

Jon’s teeth sink into his bottom lip as he’s watching the back of Martin’s head in the mirror in front of them. He doesn’t make a sound when Martin drops to his knees in front of him, and kisses along the long, jagged scar on his thigh, then follows the trail of marks down to Jon’s ankle, until he switches over to his other leg, pausing from time to time to ask his husband whether he should stop.

“Not if you think about it. This, all of this is just a record of everything that failed to get you, of everything you were too strong and too stubborn to let it be the end of you”

Even as Martin makes his way up Jon’s leg, past his knees and still chasing the pale bitemarks, he keeps his touch featherlight, doesn’t linger near Jon’s thighs or hips and before long, Jon’s whole body is trembling, but he doesn’t tell his husband to stop. This is new, but not bad. Warmth unfurls within Jon’s chest as Martin’s fingertips and lips touch- worship his body, not avoiding, but searching out everything Jon hates about it.

“I know, this is probably going to come out wrong”, Martin tells the pale line across Jon’s throat and Jon tips back his head to give him better access, “but I really barely notice them anymore. I think that goes for most people and anyway”, he’s reached the highest mark on Jon’s left temple, turns his head and kisses down the scars on the right side, “I’d rather have you like this, than not have you at all, or have some horrible, empty shell of you or anyone else. You know that right? I only ever wanted you, and I’ll only ever want you, Jonathan Blackwood-Sims”

“I do”, Jon whispers against Martin’s lips, before he’s slinging his arms around his husband’s neck again and hugs him so tight, he can feel Martin’s breath catch, “thank you”

He can still fell the soft brush of Martin’s lips against his body when Martin hugs him back, arms tight around his waist and back.

“A record, you said”, he muses when they finally pull apart and his gaze flicks back towards the mirror. He’s probably imagining it, but it almost looks, like the scars are less obvious now. His skin is probably less flushed.

“Either that or an enormous fuck you to all of the fears”, Martin suggests casually and jumps just a bit when Jon bursts out laughing, slapping a hand in front of his mouth.

“Martin!”

“What? It’s true”

Martin is smiling as well, when he wraps his arm around Jon’s waist and guides him upstairs to dress.

“Martin?”, Jon asks over his shoulder as he’s pulling Martin’s favourite jumper over his head.

“Hm?”

“I”, Jon starts, then pauses in search for words, “is it okay for you, if I’m still not… not alright with it?”

It. His whole body. At least the eyes were gone.

“For me?”

“Well, you’re the one who has to deal with me having issues”

“That doesn’t mean, you have to pretend to be alright”

“Since I’m so great at that anyway”

“Oh yes, what a shame”, Martin says dryly, “of course it’s okay if you’re… self-conscious?”

“More like annoyed”, Jon mutters, then adds, “maybe a little self-conscious”

“And that’s perfectly alright”

“Can you turn around for me?”, Martin asks and can’t help himself but breath a stupid little ‘hi’ when his husband complies and sits down next to him on their bed.

“Hi”

If anyone had told the Jonathan Sims that had taken on the position of head archivist a couple of years ago that he would turn this sappy, with Martin Blackwood of all people, he would have probably pulled a muscle form frowning at that person before he’d thrown them out of the archives. The current Jonathan Blackwood-Sims who, on his part, can’t keep from returning Martin’s grin however doesn’t even think about not scooting closer to him and letting himself fall into his embrace once he’s close enough.

“I just have one condition”

“You can’t have conditions after the fact”

“Watch me”

“Okay”, Jon says as he rests his head against his husband’s shoulder and watches his face, “go on then”

“You _tell_ me when you need anything. None of that toughing-it-out-bullshit”

“Martin, I’m the least equipped person of all time to try and tough anything out on my own”

“Of course”

Sarcasm drips of the two words.

“Just promise, okay?”

“Okay”, Jon relents, reaching up and cupping Martin’s face in the palm of his hand, “I promise. There, happy now?”

\---

Later that day, Jon curls up with Sappho on the sofa next to his husband when Martin’s classes start.

Normally, Martin would take his laptop up to their study and return downstairs once he’s finished for the evening while Jon cooked or, when Jon was at the library, he would spread out across their dining table. Tonight though, Jon’s legs are stretched out between them, socked feet resting on his husband’s lap while he’s snuggling their kitten and Martin keeps smoothing one hand up and down Jon’s calf and shin as he’s taking notes. Jon only leaves the room for a couple of minutes to order dinner and feed Sappho, and when he returns to their living room Martin lifts his left arm again and wraps it around Jon’s waist once he’s sat down next to him, knees pressing against Martin’s thigh as he lays his head against his husband’s chest.

His attention drifts between Martin’s heartbeat and the geography lesion currently in process, although he quickly loses the threat. Martin smells of lime and basil and before long Jon’s eyes start drooping, breath slow and even. He barely notices when Martin powers down his laptop and pushes it closed.

“Hey”, he says softly, as he pushes Jon’s hair back and lets his hand linger against his jowl, “don’t go to sleep yet”

“’m not”, Jon mutters into his husband’s shirt, half asleep.

“I can see that”

Martin’s chuckle is interrupted by their doorbell and Jon sinks down against the cushions as soon as he’s gotten up to answer it. In the end it’s the smell of about half their favourite Thai-place’s menu that persuades the former archivist to push himself up again and clear the coffee table in front of the couch until there’s enough room for their plates and food containers.

Neither of them has really eaten anything since breakfast and before long most of the boxes are emptied and stacked onto each other while Jon and Martin give up all pretences and just curl up around their overfilled stomachs on the sofa. At some point one of them had switched on the telly and only by the time the first of three successive episodes of Midsummer Murders has wrapped up, has Jon regained the energy to suggest to just retire to bed. As comfortable as the sofa is, he’ll gladly pass on the sore back and neck sleeping there would entail.

When they have finally made it to bed, and Sappho has finished her mandatory walk down Jon’s side and legs to curl up at their feet, Jon lays one hand against Martin’s cheek and pulls him into a deep kiss.

“I love you”, he tells Martin when he lays his head back against his husband’s shoulder.

“I love you too”, Martin whispers back, “always and forever”

**Author's Note:**

> As promised; an alternate (happy) ending to the fourth season of "Them Magnus Archives"
> 
> I had planned on maybe adding an additional chapter or two to deal with the aftermath of this failed ritual if anyone would be interested. (it would be very fluffy and sweet)
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading <3
> 
> (If you liked this, you might also like: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28458033)


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